Stumbling Ch. 01

The moon was sleeping, the night alone to spread its darkness over the landscape. Landscape was a sort of glorified term in this case, if I'm honest. At least it was dark. Helps to cover the ugly I suppose.

On one side of the road, there was a near never ending stream of pine trees, swaying slightly with the cold winter's wind. The other side was a mixture of cow paddocks interspersed with houses and windbreak tree lines. I was traveling down the winding, lineless back road on my usual way home from school. Football practice had run long, thus the sun had already gone down by the time I'd left the field. By the time I set off for home, darkness had taken over completely. My old S-10's surprisingly bright headlights lead the way as I shifted in my seat with the turns. Every bend in the road was one step closer to a nice hot shower, perhaps even a quick bit of 'alone time' before bed.

A stop sign marked where the road ran into the side of county road 734. From there it was only four more miles to my bed. Not to mention the shower. I had started to move my foot from the brake to the gas when I heard three sharp, quick pops. They sounded almost like short claps of thunder, but there was no rain to be had. I knew right away they were gunshots. Living in the country, it's not unusual to hear them. Sometimes, someone's been hunting. Other times, somebody may have just felt like shooting off a few rounds. I thought nothing of it.

I turned right onto the old road. Half a mile later, the road curved to the left. As I came out of the bend, I saw a sheriff's car parked alongside the road with its lights on. Slowing down, I made to go around it, rubbernecking as anyone would of course. Strangely, no car was parked in front of the deputy's. The door of the car was even with mine when I saw it, or rather him.

He was on the road from the waist up, in the ditch from the waist down. I immediately swerved and slammed on brakes, coming to a stop on the wrong side of the road, the front somewhat facing the opposite ditch. My heart pounded in my chest as I placed the shifter in park, undid my seatbelt, and scrambled out the truck. The echo of my hand hitting metal sounded briefly as I grabbed the end of the truck bed to launch around the corner faster.

I ran up to him. His face was pale. The wool on the collar of his coat had started to turn an alarming shade of pink. I could hear him mumbling something unintelligible into his mic as the blood poured out from three different holes which shouldn't have been there. The one on his leg wasn't bleeding as badly as the stomach or chest wound, though I couldn't see the chest wound for his hand. I took my belt off to tie it over the hole in his leg. Once finished with that, I pressed as hard as I could on the man's stomach wound. The blood felt warm and wet as it slid over my fingers, despite there being no gaps between them. I looked up to the man's face to ask him if help was coming. He only managed to nod yes.

As soon as I'd seen his face, I knew who he was, though it hadn't quite registered until then. Mr. Kirk had spoken at our school a number of times. His son was the class nerd, as well as being singled out as the school queen. Whether or not he was actually gay had never been established. Everyone just assumed, thus taking it as license to make Richey's life miserable. The weirdest thought went through my head in that moment. I couldn't help thinking of how different the two were. Mr. Kirk was fairly tall, though quite round in his old age with his gut sticking out. Richey was a toothpick. Mr. Kirk had brown hair while his son was blond like his mother. Again like his mother, Richey's face was narrow. The abject look of terror mixed with pain on the round face in front of me slowly started turning to one of resignation.

"Mr. Kirk, tell me what to do!" My hands shook the man slightly as I yelled.

"Pray..." He mumbled. Blood seeped out from between his lips.

"No,no,no,no,no..." I could feel myself panicking.

The only noise around us was the puttering of my exhaust and the occasional dog or owl. I tried to remember what I'd been taught one time in a health class. No one ever pays attention in health class. I tossed my brain upside down like I was looking for my phone in my room. Nothing.

"Come on Mr. Kirk, talk to me, about anything, it doesn't matter."

A small grin appeared on his face. "You may be right about that..." His eyes closed.

"NO! Stay awake Mr. Kirk! Now isn't the time for a nap!" One hand left the grip I had on the stomach wound to grab the side of his face and direct his eyes at mine. They opened slowly, appearing glassy like someone drunk almost.

The hand that was on his chest wound rested on mine on his stomach. Sirens had begun to wail in the distance. His mouth opened slightly, some blood immediately spilling out again. He closed, swallowed, and tried again.

"Tell Donna... Tell Donna-" He started to cough a bit. "Tell her and Richey I love them please... Peter too..." Peter was Richey's younger brother. Mr. Kirk's eyelids closed, fluttering as they did so.

"Oh shit..." I mumbled.

I sat stunned for a moment. Suddenly, urgency came over me. CPR training had never crossed my mind before. I made my best attempt at copying what I'd seen on TV. The first pump, I heard some loud cracks, which an EMT later told me were his ribs breaking. I kept this up until a black pickup with a red light flashing on the dashboard pulled up. An average sized man in jeans jumped out, running over to us. I recognized him as Mr. Guthrie. My mother went to church with him. He'd been on the volunteer fire department for as long as I'd been alive.

"I got it kid." His voice was low, yet firm as he gently pushed me out of the way to take my place. His compressions were firmer and more consistent than mine. Blood seeped out both the small little holes I could see with each down and up movement. Sirens were coming closer all the while. A bloody handprint stood out on Mr. Kirk's face where I'd held him.

An ambulance came screeching around the curve as more flashing lights illuminated the sky. The shrillness of the siren hurt my ears. Air whooshed out as the brakes came on. The noise abruptly stopped, though the lights stayed on. Two men in plain clothes hopped out of the front. One carried a box, sort of like a small briefcase.

The box had two paddle things inside. I'd seen them on TV before in hospital shows like everyone else, but never in person, much less in use. One man placed the sticky pads on as Mr. Guthrie moved out of the way. The man with the paddles stated, "Everyone Clear. Clear," before sticking the paddles to the pads. Mr. Kirk's body spasmed as electricity shot through his body. They repeated this ten times before the man with the paddles began to shake his head when the others looked up at him. Mr. Guthrie hung his head, a large sigh escaping him. This entire time, I had sat, mutely watching. Maybe this is what shock feels like.

A few more sheriffs' cars pulled up. The first man to get out of his ran over, his feet bringing him to a sudden stop when he saw the EMT packing up his paddles. Mr. Guthrie shook his head as he walked past the man, going back toward his truck. The deputy's mouth hanged opened as he stared down at Mr. Kirk.

"Come on kid, let's get you somewhere else." Said the man who had placed the stickers on Mr. Kirk. I looked down at Mr. Kirk's bare chest. In all the confusion, I never noticed someone cut his shirt open. It was covered one minute and bare the next.

"But Mr. Kirk-"

"I don't think he'll mind. Come on."

He led me to the back of the ambulance, where he had me sit down on the edge after he opened the doors. He got me to take a few breaths of oxygen to calm me down. Time seemed to pass in a fog like way, coming and going without really noticing. At some point, he cleaned the blood off my hands. I sat quietly as he checked me over.

A deputy came up and took a statement from me. Once he heard that I hadn't witnessed the shooting, the rest was really quick. I had no information he couldn't gleam from just looking at the body. The body. Dear god, I'd watched a man die. I knew him, his family, everything. They lived just a few miles away from me. My mom's going to freak. My mom!

"Sir, I need to go home. My mother's going to be worried sick."

The deputy looked to an older deputy before nodding.

"We have your address and phone number should we need to talk to you about anything else."

"Thank you for your efforts young man." The older deputy said. "You at least gave him a fighting chance at making it. I'm sure his family will appreciate it." He patted my shoulder and led me to my truck with a gentle ease about him. His comment really made me feel like shit. His family probably didn't even know yet. How weird is it to know someone is dead while his family sleeps in their beds thinking everything is fine, they're biggest worry being tomorrow.

"You're not driving home like this kid. Wait here a minute."

"I can drive."

"No you can't."

He walked away, coming back with a really young deputy with black hair and a kind face.

"Give me your keys son." Said the older deputy. His name plate said Winchell. I'd never met him before, though this was a large county. He could've lived on the northern side.

He hopped in the driver side of my worn bench seat. The younger deputy followed in a cruiser. It was extremely weird to be in the passenger side of my truck for a change. This side of the seat seemed higher up than the other, almost as if it had leaned a small amount.

The door to the house opened just after headlights flashed over it. My mother came running out in her night clothes. She crushed me in a hug before she held me at arms distance. Her eyes scanned Deputy Winchell.

"Ethan Doyle, what in god's name did you do." Her voice was like acid, promising I'd regret the crime she thought I'd committed.

"Ma'am, this ain't what it seems, I promise. Honestly, I wish it were." He cleared his throat. "You should be very proud Ma'am. Your son stopped to help a deputy who had been shot. Unfortunately, he passed away."

"Oh my god!" She gasped, then hugged me again even tighter than before.

"Who was it?"

"While normally we wouldn't say, I'm sure your son would inform you after I left. Deputy Marshall Kirk died after a brave effort by your son. We ask that you not contact the family until we've had a chance to do so, or any media for that matter."

"That won't be a problem officer. My god, I can't believe this. Thank you so much for bringing Ethan home."

"It won't a problem Ma'am. Thank you Ethan. You did what you could."

I could only nod. Thanks seemed useless when I knew I had failed. Winchell and the young deputy left in their car while my mother led me inside. She sat me down at the kitchen table with a glass of Diet Pepsi.

"Do you want to talk about it sweety?"

I shook my head 'no.'

She kissed my forehead as she walked past to her bedroom, the door closing behind her. She was good in knowing when I needed to just think. It had been me and her since my dad walked out. He sends alimony checks from across the country which keep us living comfortably along with my mother's salary. She's an accountant. She works with numbers. The only number in my head was the number three.

If I had sped down the road instead of crawling maybe he'd be alive. Maybe I'd have seen the shooter or his car. The police would have a lot more to work with. I'd cost a man his life, his family a father and a husband.

Water burned my skin as I scrubbed, trying hard to get off every last trace of blood. Red still stained them no matter how hard I clawed at my hands. The image wouldn't go away. Blood seeping through my fingers. I slung the curtain open as I stepped out, the skin on my hands raw. Brushing, rinsing, it all seemed unimportant. My eyes stayed open, even as I lay in bed. I couldn't believe what had happened. It was all shit.

Nightmares. Every night. Every night since Wednesday had been full of nightmares. They wouldn't go away. I didn't go to school Thursday. The funeral was on Sunday, after the medical examiner had finished with the body. I didn't go. Couldn't. It would've been too much to see his face again, up close. The sight of a grieving mother with two sons would've surely sent me looking for a tall bridge with rocks at the bottom.

Richey wasn't at school for two more weeks. Everyone talked about the incident. Everyone called me a hero, even though I hadn't done anything. Everyone wanted to ask questions. I wanted to scream, run away someplace where it was quiet. The news was all people could talk about. A cop hadn't died in the line of duty in nearly two decades, and that had been from a heart attack. I can still remember the news report two days after.

"Local Kynworth County Deputy Sherriff Marshall C. Kirk was shot and killed Wednesday night when a gunmen opened fire." Said Anne Cox, our local news anchor. "Deputy Kirk had pulled over a green, 80's model Toyota Camry when police say the driver shot Deputy Kirk three times with a 38. Special revolver when Kirk approached the driver's window. Kirk apparently had no warning this was going to happen as, according to the Kynworth County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Kirk hadn't drawn his weapon. Dash cam footage also reveals the gruesome and sudden nature of this cowardly attack. Viewer discretion is advised." I had turned it off before the video played. My mother later told me that I had been mentioned in the broadcast, though how they got my name and picture, I'll never know.

When Richey returned, the people were distant. Before the incident, students only approached Richey to give him some level of shit. This went on for no more than a week. It was like these jerks had decided in their own minds that Richey was Richey and his dad was his dad. The two were separate, therefore not connected. They had no conscious about picking on someone who just had his father ripped away by some jackass with a gun. They picked on him because of his soft voice, his thin build, or his blonde spiky hair, though he hadn't bothered gelling it since. They called him faggot, queen, or any number of other loads of shit simply because they always had. Why should they stop? I'd been asked this the one time I'd asked one of my football buddies why they did this. According to him, his dad dying didn't make the queen a saint, same as it didn't change the color of the moon.

I heard them. Quiet at first. Just piss Ethan, just piss and leave. Simple. You've done it a million times before. Another sniffle. I could see his Converses beneath the stall walls. Christ alive. My boots made soft thuds as I slowly approached the door. I knocked once. A clatter arose with his hasty attempt to stand, the metal of the toilet paper dispenser being hit at some point. The lock clicked, the door slowly opening to reveal a red eyed Richey, the blue seeming out of place.

"You okay?" I felt stupid even as I said it.

He glared at me.

"I'm fine. Why do you care?"

I looked down, as if the floor would provide an answer.

He marched by me to the sinks. His hands collected water to splash his face with. I talked while he did this.

"I'm sorry about your dad."

His hands stopped halfway to his face. The pause lasted a second before his hands opened to drop the water back in the sink, only fill them up again to splash some more.

Squeaking as it did, he twisted the knobs, turning the water off. His hands supported him on the sink as he stared down the drain.

"They told me what you did-"

"Don't thank me."

He turned around on me, anger in his eyes.

"What? Don't want the fag to talk to you?" He spat.

"It's not that." I hung my head for a moment, unsure how to phrase what I wanted to say. "I didn't do anything, least not anything that worked."

Anger instantly dissipated. His ass rested on the edge of the sink. He hung his head too.

"At least you tried."

"It wasn't enough."

"No it wasn't."

Silence hung thick in the air between us.

"I don't know how to say this. He, uh... he wanted me to tell you, well you and your mother- your brother too... shit." He looked up at me, confusion evident on his face. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I really don't know how to say this."

"So just spit it out already."

"He told me to tell you and your family that he loved you. Then he...well...you know the rest I'm sure."

A tear fell from his eye, followed by another, then another. I walked over to the paper towel dispenser. He took them from my hand while I muttered apologies. He thanked me and told me to shut up before I could interrupt again. Minutes passed. His tears eventually stopped. I took the paper, throwing it in the trash can.

"Thank you Ethan." He said quietly while walking around me, out the door. I stared into the mirror. Life was a bit shit.