---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/book “Forbidden” cc&d, v276 (the October 2017 issue) Order this as a 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the issue book Language of Untamed Spirit the cc&d Sept.-Dec.2017 collection book		get the 4 page May-August 2017 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Roof Shot

Margaret Karmazin

    The first step is to visit my nurse practitioner and ask her for a script to get an HIV test. I need a valid reason to be in the hospital annex. What I tell her is, “I hate to admit I did this, but I had sex with this guy I met at a party and later my friend tells me the guy is a major slut and she hopes to God I used a condom. Well, we did use one the first time but then didn’t have any more and well...”
    She gives me an angry little lecture before scribbling out the order and I thank her humbly with my head properly hanging.
    The truth is though, I haven’t had sex for over a year and that was with my ex.
    With a little smile on my face, I slip the script into my pocket and leave.
    They say that women make better marksmen than men. Fine motor control and all. In fact, science proves that women hold a distinct advantage in long-distance shooting. Wider hips and a lower distribution of weight provide females with more balance and control in a standing position. I’ve known this for some time now, since my brother Sean and I practiced up at our uncle’s cabin. I was born to be a sniper, though hardly the military type since I enjoy physical comfort, pretty clothes and jewelry too much for that kind of suffering.
    The target is in my sight. From my position on the roof, I have a clear path between two five-story buildings straight through the park to the stage. His men stand on each side of him, tiny figures in black, so predictable and easy to see against the bright backdrop. The crowd is relatively sparse and wearing, since it is spring, a lot of light colored clothing. The target’s head is centered, from here a tiny peach blob. A slight breeze is blowing from the east and ruffles the bangs of my wig.
    The target has apparently begun his speech. A miniature arm is frequently in the air. My MO is to shoot on the exhale. I take several long, calm in-and-outs, my eye bores into the target’s head and slowly I pull the trigger.
    After that, I don’t waste even a second looking to see the results. Having trained for this for months, I quickly take down the rifle and tripod, fold the latter up and run with both across the roof to a long unused chimney. This is about three feet high and one and a half feet across. I dump the objects down it but don’t wait to hear the distant clatter as they hit bottom. My bag waits by the steps, so I grab it and run like hell down the next seven flights and out into the street to hear sirens coming from all directions.
    Two things are fortunate; the first that my grandparents had their apartment in this building for thirty-nine years and they watched Sean and me while Mom worked. We ran all over the place, including the roof, and I know every nook and cranny. That’s how I was aware of that chimney being sealed off at the bottom. The second thing is that my grandfather was a World War II vet and military gun nut and the rifle I just used was his very last acquisition, a Barrett Model 99, made in 1999. One year later Grandpa died.
    Looking as calm as possible, I slip down an alley and out a half block down, then cross the street and into the hospital annex through the side door I’d planned on. A single restroom is to my left and happily no one is in it, otherwise, I’d have to continue down that hall and turn right for the next one. Locking the door, I remove the short black wig, pop it into my bag and shake out my honey blonde hair. I remove my reversible navy jacket, flip it to its light tan side and struggle back into it. I peel off my up to the elbows surgical gloves, pull a good pair of scissors out of my bag and cut the gloves into tiny pieces into the toilet. Then I finish up by taking a pee, flush the toilet and carefully wash my hands and arms. It looks like everything flushed well, but to make sure, I flush again before making my exit. Oh, one more thing – I pull a hot pink scarf out of my bag and wind it around my neck. Anyone who looks at me now will note that scarf. This new chick looks nothing like the one who ran out of that building.
     A doctor walks by in his long white coat and we nod at each other. I continue on down the hall, make several turns and locate registration where I check in for my blood test. Not too long a wait and then off to the lab where I push up my jacket sleeve and endure the needle stick. Several sirens are approaching outside.
    “What’s all that?” I ask the tech.
    “I don’t know,” she says. “An accident or something.”
    “How long for the results?” I ask, being sure to sound anxious.
    “One to two weeks. Your doctor will call you.”
    “Thanks,” I say, pushing my sleeve back down. “Wish I’d been more careful.” The tech nods and tries to comfort me. “Chances are good you’re all right but even worst case scenario, they keep you up and running for decades now.”
    I smile at her, head out and am soon back on the street where a huge crowd has gathered that includes press, TV crews and police. One cop, a big hairy type with his head shaved is yelling at people to disperse. I approach a smaller, quiet one and ask, “What’s going on?”
    Instead of answering, he tells me to move on, so I do. I cross the street and walk two blocks to my own apartment. People are milling about in the street there too, but I cut through them and into my building. One of my neighbors, Mrs. Goldstein, says, “Can you believe it? I thought something like this might eventually happen.”
    I shake my head. “The world is insane,” I assure her and walk on by into the elevator. My apartment is on the top floor. It sure is good to be home; I feel like I might collapse but still have work to do.
    This old building has charms that new ones usually don’t unless you’re a zillionaire - marble floors in a few places and fireplaces in some of the apartments. Like mine. The wood and kindling are already stacked; all I have to do is light it. While it’s gearing up, I take the wig into the bathroom and snip off tiny bits at a time to flush down the toilet. After several flushes, I take what’s left back to the living room and toss it into the flames. Meantime, I remove my old leather ballet pumps and add them to the pyre. Tomorrow, I’ll clean out the fireplace and that will be that.
     My cat is interested in some loving but first I pour a glass of Chardonnay and pick up my photo of Sean wearing his fatigues in the Iraqi desert. He still looked relatively happy then before he had his arm blown off and got all crazy from PTSD... before that fucker I shot was instrumental in cutting off funds to veterans. Before Sean ran out of help and ended up hanging from the ceiling. Yeah, he still looked happy then.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...