What the Hell, a Short Story

I had just switched off the TV when the window broke and rained shards all over me, the couch and the
pizza. It was a quiet Thursday night. I had taken the day off, deciding to chill for a day after months of
working on a project with teammates who were less than savory. The type that hot-potato tossed their
tasks around until it landed with a team member that wasn’t a lazy asshole and who actually did the
work.

The loud shatter of glass had just faded into the quiet of distant city traffic. My eyes were closed. I
patted at my hair, my face, dreading the thin shrapnel I keep having recurring nightmares about in my
eye. Who, what, why can wait, just let me get this shit out of my face.

Letting out a shuddering breath, I squinted both eyes open. TV -too bright-- was still on in the dark. Pizza
was still on the table. Glass toppings, anyone? I grabbed the remote off the table: a weapon, and stood
up slowly. The why was slowly trickling through.

“Sorry about the glass.” I shrieked, my knees colliding into the coffee table. The remote was flying
towards the voice, then I stumbled back-first into the TV.

“Missed.” The outline of a figure laughed. My eyes scoured the table for another weapon: I grabbed a
mug, dregs of coffee sloshing out of it. Where was my phone? Bathroom? Bathroom. “Save your sorry,
you’re paying for it.”

He laughed again. Light switch, light switch – forgot where my own apartment’s light switch was— light
switch: past the shithead, on the kitchen wall.

“Fair enough.” He sounded sincere. Sincere, my ass.

“You’re cleaning this mess up, too.” I hate broken glass, transparent knives that dig their way under your
eyelids, poke into your tear ducts.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid—” I switched off the tv, throwing him into the dark. “I wouldn’t try anything, if I
were you.” He said, something like unease bleeding into his voice.

Lights switched back on; I was in the kitchen, gun pointing at him. “Who, me? Try anything?” I said
sarcastically.

He puts his hands up, and sighed, mock exhaustedly, playfully. I’m gonna wipe that stupid smile right off
his—“I did apologize for the glass.” He was in a black suit and a white buttoned shirt and a black bow tie,
like he just walked out from a formal dress event.

“Never knew burglars dressed so nice for their nightly activities.”

“You’re too kind,” he said, actually bashful.

“WHY! ARE! YOU! HERE!” I shouted, pointing the gun at him with every syllable.

He froze. He swallowed. “We’re on the same side here.” He said, in an appropriately uneasy tone of
voice.

“Yeah, cause nothing says ‘on the same side’ than NOT using the DOOR!”
“I understand that you’re upset—” he said gently. I cocked the gun. “ok, ok, ok, just relax, don’t do
anything stupid!” He spat, finally showing aggravation.

“Should I start with your knees?” I said, glaring him. “Know what, I’ll go with the shoulders—”

“WE KNOW EACH OTHER!” He shouted.

I gave him a pitying smile. “You’re gonna tell me why you’re here,” I said in a dangerously calm voice,
“Or I’ll start with your shoulder.”

“I’m here, because we know each other. Knew.”

I looked like someone had just let in a bad smell. “Did I swipe right on you?— Or was it left?— You a
jilted creep? Is that what this is—”

He sputters out a laugh. I glare. “No, sorry,” He tries to compose himself, hands still up… he succeeds.
“Yeah, no, sorry, I am not a jilted creep. Can I take something out of my pocket?”

“No.”

He sighed with real exhaustion. “Listen,” he gave his forehead a little scratch. “I know I broke your
window—”

“YOU BROKE IN, PERIOD.”

“Yes, fine, I broke your window and into your apartment, but we have to go.”

“Wha– wha– LIPSTICK IN MY VALENTINO WHITE BAG?!”

“Funny.”

I laughed. This guy was crazy. He breaks into my apartment, claims that he knows me, PURPORTS there
is, was, a ‘we’—

“Mr. Fletcher.”

The fuck was he—my face fell.

“I know.” He said, and his face was carved with lines too serious suddenly, too sympathetic.

There was rage and I found my gun digging into his throat. I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t say anything.
Nobody knew. Nobody. He didn’t move. Eyes, resigned.

“Ask me how I know,” he asked, hands still up.

I shoved him off, his back slammed against the fridge. He looked… hurt? I pointed my gun at him again.
“I know I didn’t tell you.”

“Well, it’s either you did or I’m psychic.”

“Hmmm,” I said, feigning thinking about it, “I think I’d remember that.”

He looked away, then. “You would.” He said after a while. Our eyes met. We jumped at a barrage of
banging –someone was throttling knocks at the door. And yelling.
“Friends?” I asked, suspicion in him reaching a crescendo.

He let a long shuddering breath, and straightened. “No, not friends.” He took a step forward so that the
gun pressed into his chest. “We’re friends. You told me things, I told you things,” he nervously glanced
at a splinter of the door landing on the pizza. Then more irritated, “WE—” he gestured desperately to
him and me—“TOLD EACH OTHER THINGS, KATE! AND TRUST ME WHEN I SAY WE HAVE TO GO – NOW!”

I saw another chunk of door somersault onto the couch before bouncing off and spinning out the broken
window.

“Kate!” He shouted. It took me a second to realise that he had both hands on my shoulders. His touch
weightless. I didn’t shrug them off. “You can ask me whatever you like AFTER we leave, ok?” He
implored. I nodded, and for a moment he seemed shocked I agreed. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“WOULD YOU JUST DO IT!”

“WHY?”

Another bit of door shot off into the night.

“BECAUSE— THAT DOOR WON’T HOLD, AND I NEED YOU TO TRUST ME FOR THE NEXT 5 FUCKING
MINUTES, OK?”

“I HAVE THE GUN, REMEMBER.”

“Ok, yes, exactly, and you don’t need your eyes open to USE it.” He retorted. I searched his face. He was
sweating, eyes wide and desperate. He was unarmed.

An explosion sounded: the door’s hinges clattered to the floor.

This is a mistake this is a mistake this is a mistake – I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Don’t open them, no matter what, not even a little, or it won’t work. There’s gonna be a loud sound, a
breeze—”

“What—”

“KEEP THEM SHUT!”

He tightened his grip on my shoulders. I gritted my teeth against the tightness, but didn’t move—This is
a mistake this is a mistake this is a mistake— A slight breeze ruffled my hair, then a hurricane threw us
sideways as bullets sprayed.

END.