Guilty

Martin stood knee-deep in Dawkins Creek, sweaty palms tightly clutching a pair of binoculars. Any tighter, and he could crush the binoculars to dust in his own hands. He was watching the police station intently, baring his teeth in anger. His anger slowly turned to a grin as he continued watching, quietly cackling to himself, before it turned to anger again.
How did he wind up like this?
Two months prior, he and his wife Cindy were arrested. Cindy had hung herself in her cell on the opposite end of the building overnight, so Martin was brought to the trial alone. The officers denied everything that Martin said, and of course the jury believed the men in uniforms as opposed to the guy in handcuffs with the broken nose. The court ruled that he had to pay a $5,000 fee. He couldn't afford it, so they took his house instead. They sent him home, but said that he had to leave within 8 hours.
He packed a suitcase with his laptop, the only $200 he had, a few sets of clothing, some canned soup and pasta, a bag of chips, some cereal bars, 6 bottles of water, and the rest of the marijuana that the officers didn't find. After spending $150 on a cheap motel, he smoked the last of his pot so that he could drown his sorrows for only a moment and forget about how shitty his life had gotten in less than a day. He bought a box of matches and a lovely cardboard box of "fine" wine from the local drug store, wondering how they could make a profit off the stuff selling it for only $4 a gallon. He spent the night in the motel, passing out after downing half the wine.
By Monday, his employer had gotten wind of what happened and terminated his job. Martin contemplated killing him, but then decided that he was already in enough deep shit. With no other options, he shambled over to the trainyard and set up camp in a boxcar with another hobo. He downed the rest of the wine, and passed out on the cold metal floor. He woke up at 4am to another officer kicking him in the stomach. He threw him out of the train along with his suitcase, breaking his leg and most of his canned foods. He tried to go to sleep on the ground, but couldn't due to his pounding headache and the immense pain in his left leg. Sitting up, he thought for a bit.
His life was completely ruined. He thought about ending it all, but then remembered why he was the shell of a man that he was. The cops. He laughed as he imagined killing the cops in all sorts of creative ways, from stabbing to burning to dismemberment to burning to hydrochloric acid to-
And then he passed out on the ground.
He woke up the next day to find out that his suitcase had been stolen, as if things couldn't get any worse. After crying for a minute, he got up and hobbled down the street until he found a can of ravioli on the ground. He smiled, as finally something good was happening to him. His smile quickly turned to a frown, as he realized that he had no way of opening it. In a fit of rage, he picked up the can and bashed it against his head. The lid snapped off, and the ravioli spilled out all over the dirty road. Since he was in no position to care anymore, he bent down and picked up the cold ravioli with his muddy fingers and popped it into his mouth. All he could taste was dirt, with a vague hint of meat and tomato. He didn't care anymore, it was the best meal he'd had in days.
He picked up the empty can and stared at it, contemplating what to do next. He decided that he could head to the nearest city (wherever it was) and try to get some money, so he started down the road again. A few hours later, he saw what appeared to be a $100 bill fluttering across the road. He ran up to grab it, thinking he could maybe get some new clothes, go to Applebee's to get some potato skins and a hamburger, and maybe even get some more weed so that he could forget how much of a failure his life had become. He picked it up, opened it..
And it was just an ad for a local church. There was a religious tract typed on the inside, with the first line being "Disappointed? Don't be! You're on the path to Jesus!" At that point, he tore it up in a fit of rage and ate it. He felt even worse now, but just continued down the road to a city he could see off in the distance. He spent the night in a box on the side of the road, and made it to the city the next day. He plopped down on the curb of 5th and Spencer with his ravioli can, and sang to those who passed by.
His singing had netted him $75. He thought about getting his potato skins and hamburger, but then got another idea. He searched around the harborfront for a bit, and it wasn't long before he found the black market.
1 3/4 months later, he had made it back to his hometown, staring at the police station through his binoculars and cackling maniacally to himself. Then, the station exploded right before his eyes. He erupted in a fit of laughter, and fell backwards into the river, nearly drowning laughing until a cop dragged him up out of the river.
"What are you doing here?"
"I-"
The cop didn't even wait for a response before handcuffing him and putting him in a police truck for the night. A few minutes later, the cops opened the door and loaded in a couple of teenagers. One was white, one was black, and they were both wearing black hoodies. After they all sat in silence for a few minutes with the teenagers staring at him in fear, he asked
"What did they get you for?"
They both replied:
"Weed."
He was silent for a few seconds, and described how his life had been ruined.
"Oh, and I blew up the police station," he said.
"Really?" one of the teenagers replied.
"Nah, but it's what the feds think and that's all that matters in this hellhole of a country."
The next day, Martin was lying face down on the floor of the truck. The teenagers and the cops thought he was dead, so one of the officers dragged him out. Then he got up, kicked the officer in the testicles, and started running. Who was there at the time shot him in the back with a shotgun. He fell to the pavement, and the officer rolled him over onto his back. At the verge of death, he remembered how it all began.
He was sitting at home on his computer watching YouTube and browsing through Reddit. His wife Cindy was on the couch watching some garbage reality show, and their 8-year-old daughter Marie was already sleeping. His white Labrador was lying next to his feet, and its puppies were asleep in a cage in the kitchen. Just a typical Friday night, until someone knocked on the door. Martin got up to answer it, but six armed police officers bashed the door in before he could. Martin tried to get an explanation. "Hey, what are you-" "SHUT UP!". One of the officers then slammed Martin's head on a table, breaking his nose. They then proceeded to handcuff him and force him into a corner whilst they tore the kitchen apart looking for drugs.
The dog got up and started barking at the officers, and they drew their guns and prepared to fire. Cindy then ran into the kitchen and tried to put the dog in its cage, but one of the officers interjected "No. You have to tie it to a chain in the yard. Cindy knew better than to argue with cops like these, so she complied. The officers continued to open drawers and cupboards, destroy furniture, and interrogate Martin despite him repeatedly denying any accusations.
At some point, the dog managed to escape. It ran into the house to try and save the people inside, and the officers quickly turned around and shot it 8 times with their pistols and twice with their shotguns, splattering bits of its head all over the opposite wall. One of the officers then walked up to the puppies in their cage, who were whimpering loudly. The officer pepper sprayed the puppies, and prepared to shoot them too until Cindy interfered, begging them, "Please don't shoot the puppies!" The officer then turned around, handcuffed Cindy, and forced her into the corner next to Martin. All the while, Marie was awakened by all the ruckus, and was staring around the corner of the hallway in shocked silence. Finally, she worked up the courage to simply ask, "Daddy?" One of the officers then quickly turned around and shot her below the ribcage with his shotgun.
Martin watched in horror as his daughter bled out in front of him, crying and screaming, while the officers did nothing about it and just carried on their drug raid. A few minutes later, she was dead. Martin and Cindy were both blubbering messes at this point, but the officers still got their bust. There was enough marijuana in the house to charge Martin with misdemeanor charges, and they also arrested Cindy for "obstructing justice". The cops then forced them both into the squad car and took them to the police station, putting them into cells on opposite ends of the building.
He stared up at the officer, his breaths getting shorter and his muscles getting weaker. He managed to get out only: "To you this all was nothing. Everything to you is nothing. I'm better off without you, and you're better off without me. It's over now..."
And then he faded away into nothingness.
Category:Mental Illness
Category:Reality