Two months earlier.

From the black of a dreamless sleep, I heard a faint sound in the distance. Like a buzzing, drawing closer. What was that? I knew the sound, but couldn't place it. It continued, rhythmically, annoyingly, slowly dragging me back to my senses.

Opening blurry eyes, I tried to lift my groggy head, but could barely raise it an inch. Waiving my lead-heavy limbs about, I searched aimlessly for the source of the annoyance that had awoken me. My slow, dumb fingers eventually found the vibrating phone and clumsily swiped the screen bringing an end to my tormentor. It was a hollow victory, I was awake now. Damn it.

I sat up on the edge of my bed and let my feet flop to the floor, my head heavy and sore from the night before. There was only one way to help that. I grabbed the bottle at the edge of my bed and threw back a few gulps to delay the unwanted consequences of a disrupted bender.

Wiping the sleep drool from my face I picked up my phone and, glowering, looked for the reason it had disturbed me. I hadn't set the alarm in months and no one called or texted me anymore. Well... Almost no one.

It was my Uncle Chuck. He left a message when I didn't answer. I contemplated deleting it, but grim curiosity beckoned and I pressed play.

"John, it's me, I just heard about your job. Damn it boy you know how hard I worked to get you that position. Nick is pissed with me for convincing him to bring you on. What the hell happened?"

Some part of my dulled mind felt the faintest twinge of guilt. I took another drink. My uncle's message continued. His tone shifted from frustrated to something softer, almost sad. I heard him sigh.

"-listen boy I understand. Goddamit don't you tell me I don't. You know what I lived through. But this is no way to deal. I won't help you with money anymore, but when you finally get your head out of your ass, I'm here. Call me." Click.

That was not how I wanted to start my day. Granted, I hadn't wanted to start my day at all. Still, rough wake-up call.

I rose from the dirty bundle of unwashed sheets I called a bed and shuffled across my studio apartment floor, sifting through the old wrappers and bits of stale food littered about there as I made my way to the bathroom. Lazily I faced the toilet and leaned up against the wall in a vain effort to position my hips over the bowl so as not to miss without actually aiming.

I could still hear my uncle's voice in my head. It irked me. I took another swig from the bottle as I splashed across the porcelain.

Not bothering to flush, I stumbled out of the bathroom and made my way across the room to the window opposite. Without thinking I opened the shutters letting in the way-to-bright sunlight, regretting it instantly. I had probably slept in till about noon, not that it mattered. The idea of a wasted morning meant nothing to me.

I looked out from my second-floor studio apartment to the cobblestone street below. The roads were lined with wood-paneled buildings and carved wooden shop signs hanging between old store-front windows. It all looked like something straight out of a scene from an old western film.

My apartment was on the second floor of a renovated historic building. The whole area was a landmark, the original sight where the city was first established. Now it mostly served as a tourist spot, but some people, such as myself, still lived here; for now anyway. It was a small miracle (if those existed), I hadn't been evicted yet.

Jack, the landlord, owned my apartment and the bar beneath which he tended himself. He was a good guy and an old family friend who let me move in about six years ago when I started the academy. Back then he had been excited to have me as a tenant. I wasn't so sure that was the case anymore. My relationship with Jack was likely running on fumes. Family ties could only outweigh overdue rent for so long. Oh well. I took a long pull and drained the last of the whisky.

Dropping the empty bottle to roll with others strewn about the bare wood floor, I turned my back on the daylight and shuffled over to the small cluttered kitchen island counter.

The entire apartment was one big room, except for the bathroom, with a small island counter as the only barrier separating the rest of the place from a bare-bones kitchenette. The counter was piled with weeks-old garbage, a small cloud of gnats and flies circling overhead.

I rummaged around the mess and found what I was looking for, a paper bag from the drugstore. I grabbed another bottle of whiskey from the bag and unscrewed the lid as I shuffled over to my sweat-stained recliner. I flopped down on the chair and turned on the TV mounted to the wall across, settling into my routine.

Over the past several months I slipped into a daily ritual. I would drink in front of mind-numbing screens until fatigue and eye strain from the LED lights made me pass out, then wake up whenever the next day, not bother to rinse, and repeat.

I subsisted off a medical retirement check that was just enough to pay the liquor store and food delivery guys, but not much else. My uncle's phone call this morning (or afternoon, whatever), was a reminder of my latest set of failures, mainly losing the security job he had gotten me. I felt bad about it at the time, but that was the beauty of the whiskey. Hard to feel bad about something you can't remember.

At one point some old friends had tried to get me to step outside for a bit, but that was months ago. I had refused them enough that now they just left me in my stupor. Most people had gotten the message. I was a lost cause, best they understood that... For their sake.

So with practiced efficiency I returned to my new vocation. For countless hours I sat and drank, letting uselessness and poison keep me from terrible thoughts. Sometimes it worked too. The hours dragged on. At one point I ordered take-out and added to the collection of waste carpeting the floor around my chair.

Channel surfing kept me blissfully unaware of time. I continued to flip between shows aimlessly, until catching the end of a news piece about some lost little girl.

The segment transitioned to a female reporter standing outside of a church. Imposed in the corner of the screen was the image of a young policewoman, dressed in her formal uniform and smiling vibrantly. At the sight of her, I froze like a deer in the headlights and stalled on the channel.

"I'm standing outside the church where a candlelight vigil is scheduled to take place in remembrance of fallen Officer Maria Knight. It has been six months since the five-year veteran of the Sacred River police department was tragically gunned down last June during a routine call for service involving a mentally unstable homeless man."

My numbed body went harshly rigid. A cascade of tumultuous emotions, I had so carefully buried beneath pills and booze, started clawing their way back up to the surface. My eyes were glued to the photo on the screen.

"Maria and her partner, Officer John Morgan, were ambushed by the suspect during a disturbance call. The suspect fired on officers and initiated a fierce gun battle, killing Officer Knight and wounding Officer Morgan. The suspect ultimately died from fatal gunshot wounds received in the struggle."

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My breath quickened, my eyes blurred, and my pulse began beating loudly in my ears. Somewhere in the back of my whiskey-soaked brain, I felt a dangerous tug pulling me down into dark memories like a lifeguard being pulled underwater by a drowning man. I was ripped out of myself and thrown back into that dreadful night...

Maria walked ahead of me as we approached the car. The homeless guy in a bulky coat was crouched down on the sidewalk. It happened so damn fast, I didn't even see his face before the muzzle flared. Maria stumbles backward. I moved far too slowly. By the time my gun broke leather, he shot her two more times.

Something screamed inside me to run and hide. Instead, I pointed my gun at him. I don't think I even aimed. I fired, so did he. I didn't feel the pain right away. I didn't even realize when I had fallen.

I looked up and saw her bleeding. I pulled her towards me with my one good arm. I couldn't reach the radio, my gun was gone. We were at his mercy. I fumbled to find where she was bleeding from. There was too much blood... I couldn't see the holes. I screamed her name, She didn't answer. I looked at her face, but she wasn't there...

Hyperventilation was coming on fast. I pounded what liquid courage I had left, but it wasn't working. I dared to glance at the screen again, but now, all I could see was the memory of her dripping blood.

I covered my face and screamed into my hands, smacking myself over and over trying to make it stop. I shot out of my chair and began pacing wildly, looking for a way out of my terror, but there was nowhere to go. I couldn't make out the rest of what the reporter said until I heard her sign off.

"Back to you Dave." She said with a small smile.

Her smile was infuriating. She was mocking me, that bitch. Talking about Maria, about what happened as if she knew. No one knew. No one understood. They weren't there. Everyone tried to talk to me as if they understood. Damn liars, all of them, just trying to make themselves feel better.

I grabbed for more whiskey, but It was gone. Tossing the mountain of garbage off the counter across the room I searched for another, but every bottle I picked up was empty.

The room was spinning and I was sweating profusely. I felt like an animal in a cage with nowhere to go. No, not a cage... a coffin.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Grabbing my car keys I dashed, barefooted, out the door. I could barely stand but I managed to half tumble, half walk down the stairs onto the wooden deck sidewalk out front of Jacks bar. I had no idea what time it was but night had fallen and crowds of people thronged the walkways enjoying a night out. They were all just noise to me.

I pushed past the crowds of bar hoppers, knocking them over as I went, earning yells and threats along the way to the garage where my car was parked. I don't know how I managed to get the car out onto the crowded streets without crashing, but in moments I was speeding off onto the highway, fleeing as fast as I could from a ghost.

I swerved in and out of lanes amid blaring horns and screeching tires as memories continued to spring out to the front of my mind uncontrollably...

Maria and I standing together in formation at the academy.

Maria mocking my driving in the patrol car.

Maria and I drinking at Jack's after shift.

Maria smiling.

Maria bleeding.

Maria lying far too still...

I was crazed. Not knowing where I was headed, I swerved suddenly onto the next off-ramp and ended up in a rural part of town, just outside the city proper. In no time buildings flashing past my windows were replaced by dark trees and street lights became sparse. Seeing a dirt road turn-off ahead I yanked on the wheel, nearly losing control as I tried to straighten out onto the unfinished road.

It was barely wide enough for a car and the ground became rougher as I went, branches whipping my doors and roof. Jostling up and down in my seat, I stared wide-eyed into the night ahead trying to see anything but my thoughts.

Without warning, Maria's bloody and lightless face swam out of the darkness in front of me. Screaming I slammed on the brakes kicking up a cloud of dust as I came to a screeching halt. Huffing and wheezing, I looked about wildly, but the vision was gone. I was alone in the middle of the woods.

I jumped out of my car, stumbled out into the beam of my headlights, and saw I had stopped right before a narrow wooden footbridge. I could hear water down below, I must have come up to the river's edge.

The freezing night air coming off the river hit me hard bringing a brief sense of reality. My head was swimming in alcohol and misery, but my breathing slowed, and I regained some semblance of sanity

The scar on my left arm hurt again, almost as though it were fresh. Clinging to old wounds I walked out onto the bridge and stared, hopelessly into the dark woods. There was nothing left in me but the memory of her death. This was never going to end. Six months I had tried to drink away that horrible night. Nothing worked.

Leaning against the wooden handrails of the bridge, I felt again the sensation of the coffin. There was no way out. It didn't matter where I went, there was no way to escape this...

Before the thought had fully formed, I found myself climbing up onto the handrails of the bridge. I could sense how far down the water was by the sound of distant rushing rapids.

I remembered her funeral, her casket. All the empty words everyone spoke in their clean uniforms. All the pomp and ceremony before they all returned to their lives as though nothing had happened.

Standing balanced on the rail, the slight breeze and my drunkenness made me sway dangerously to and fro. I could end it now, it would be over. No one would miss me, I had made sure of that. They would be glad to be rid of the nuisance I had become. The thought wasn't a comfort, but that was the point, I couldn't be comforted. There was no reason to live.

I began to tip forward, ready for the plunge and final darkness. Choking back the tears, I prepared to leave the world.

...When someone grabbed my shoulder.

My mind was suddenly filled with bright white light, and as it subsided I saw memories play out in front of me, more vivid and real than my booze-addled brain could have possibly achieved on its own.

Maria and I were in scenario training. We held our simulation handguns at the ready from behind cover while a role-playing suspect shot paintballs at us. She always loved these drills. From behind her clear plexiglass face mask, I could see her eyes light up.

"You ready for this, John?" she asked with a giddiness in her voice she always got when we were in a tight spot.

"Remember, even if we get hit, keep shooting, got it?"

The memory was too real. I could feel myself inside of it, like I was living it. I sobbed and tears came pouring out.

Her next words came to me, not in my mind, but from behind me as though she was standing right next to me.

"Get to work, John."

My eyes sprang open and I gasped as I fell backward onto the safety of the wooden bridge. Frantically I scrambled to my feet, looking for the source of the voice.

"Maria?" I called, squinting past the beam of my headlights.

No one answered. Panting, I leaned up against the bridge rails to steady myself. I was alone.

The experience had a sobering effect. As I regained myself, the totality of what I had nearly done hit me. Fear and sadness now had to share space with guilt and disgust. If Maria saw me like this, she would kick my ass.

Oddly, that thought brought me some small comfort. I stayed leaning against the wooden rails, pondering what else she would have said to me in my self-loathing state. As I did, one thing became clear. She wouldn't want me to die.

What now?

My back against the old wooden posts I let the cold air coming off the water below wick the sweat from my forehead. I was being foolish, I needed to go home.

Before I could move, however, the wooden planks under my feet began to creak and groan. I pushed away from the rails, but it was too late, the bridge beneath me cracked and gave way.

The bottom dropped out of my stomach as I lurched forward trying to reach for something to grab onto. My fingers slipped over fractured wood and splinters and, suddenly, I was tumbling down into the unseeable abyss towards the rapids below.