The Very Centre of Everything

Turn a corner. Stop. Release. Wheels stop turning. Sun hangs, heavy in the sky. Open the door, foot on asphalt, air conditioned air mixing with the hot California midday air. You breathe the air, take a step, slam the door behind you. Walk across the car park, into the grocery store, walking wide, air around you. You take a cigarette you rolled earlier, stick it behind your ear, close-cropped hair. The doors open, because you push them, and sounds of fridges and freezers and people talking hit you, life going on, all the essentials that we need for life.

You walk, aisle after aisle, picking tins of this and cans of that, your trolley growing full and heavy, fruits of the hunt stacked against one another.

All of a sudden, a shout, a shot, a gruff, muffled voice.

"Everyone get on the floor now!"

You run to the end of the aisle, a man with his face distorted by black wool stands, legs apart, while people crouch and cry, lie on the cold ground, shaking.

"YOU! On the floor NOW!"

The gun is pointing at you. Everything turns into slow-motion and you aren't thinking, your legs aren't even moving, or at least you can't feel them.

You do not know this is happening, but you're running, fast, lunging, punching the man in the face. A gun shot and searing pain in your left arm. You look down, disconnected from the pain you feel you see blood, bright red, so bright under the strip lights. The man is lying on the floor, scrambling around for his gun, which has slipped across the vinyl floor and under the comestics display. You punch him again, and again, until you know he's out cold. And you don't know who you are, this punching person. You grasp into your pocket, trembling, for your mobile phone, and you dial, with difficulty, "911", and then you lie back, so very tired, blood staining the floor and some tins of peaches which have fallen, while the sirens get louder until they are at the very centre of everything.