This Is How I Disappear

You have to see him, my brain says, making its first appearance since the police broke down Mikey’s door five taxing days ago.

How? I reply hopelessly. No one will let me.

The brain does not converse further. I sigh miserably, and try to fall asleep.

Insomnia is such a damn lonely dream.

***

I am just opening my math textbook in class, when I catch sight of something red outside the window. My heart leaps as I zero in on the color, but it’s merely the hue of someone’s jacket. Not Gerard, but the next best thing. Mumbling something to the teacher about needing the bathroom, I abandon my books and bag and rush from the room. When I get outside, he’s sitting on a bench facing away from me.

“Mikey,” I greet him anxiously. “Has something happened? Why are you here? How’s Gerard?”

“Gerard,” Mikey replies, not looking at me as I sit beside him, “is being transported to Northern State Prison in Newark at 3pm today.”

I sigh. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I was released,” Mikey answers calmly, “because my brother claimed he forced me to let him into my flat. Since there’s no evidence against that, and I’m a cop with no criminal record, they had to let me go.”

I run my hands through my messy hair in frustration. “I know,” I growl, “that he’s not all bad, okay? I know that. But it changes nothing.”

Mikey finally faces me, glaring. “I’ve told you when he’ll be in a car on his way to a high security prison. 3pm. You got that?”

I give him a perplexed look before it dawns on me. I breathe, “You want me to break him out.” It’s not a question.

Mikey looks away again. “I’m a cop, Frank. I just wanted you to know you’re safe, and that I’m sorry for what my brother did to you. But they’ll be taking him away to Newark at 3pm today…so you don’t need to worry.”

I stare at him like I’m trying to read his mind. “How?” is all I ask, but it’s more a demand than a question.

Mikey casually pulls his gun out and leaves it on the bench as he stands up. “Stealing a police officer’s gun is a huge offense,” he tells me seriously. “It isn’t loaded, but it’s a .45 colt like your father’s was. Magazine holds seven rounds. I presume he still has bullets lying around somewhere?”

Nodding mutely, I stand as well, and tuck the empty weapon into the waistband of my pants, trusting that my hoodie will conceal it.

“Good luck, Frank,” Mikey tells me as he walks away without looking back. “Gerard has many contacts.”

“Thank you, officer,” I say softly after him, but I’m not sure he hears. My bag is still in the classroom, but I don’t overly need it; I have a spare backpack at home. Turning away from the wretched school—with its wretched people and wretched memories, wretched girls and wretched boys—I jog the twelve blocks home. I’m coming, Gerard, I try to communicate to him via telepathy. I haven’t given up on you yet!

***

This is my parents’ car I’m driving. My parents don’t work far from home, so they rarely take the car to get to work. Lucky me.

My backpack is stuffed with clothes, toiletries, and money I stole from my parents’ safe. I feel horrible about it, I really do. But what choice did I have? It seems to be from the million they withdrew for my ransom. I took about half of it. I don’t know why they didn’t put it back in the bank. Maybe they thought they might need it at hand, though I can’t fathom why. It’s dangerous to have that much money in the house—if anyone knew about it…. Maybe the money is illegal somehow. I mean, I wouldn’t have thought they could pay the ransom. Could they have sold things or borrowed from a loan shark? But, it’s not my concern anymore.

It’s almost three when I see that lovely flash of red I’ve been waiting for. Raising the binoculars to my eyes again, I watch as Gerard and another prisoner are escorted into an armored van. There are two cops in the back with the inmates, and two more in the front. All are armed.

You are in way over your head, my brain decides to inform me.

Oh, thank you for telling me, I reply sardonically. And thank you for showing up. Where have you been?

No conflicting thoughts equals no need for you to argue in your head, my brain says, sounding bored.

That’s just stupid, I reply. Who came up with that rule?

You. My brain comes back to the point: You won’t be able to pull this off. You do know what the odds are of you succeeding, right?

Don’t remind me, I growl, lowering the binoculars and starting the engine as the armored van lumbers up to the gate.

Approximately one in a million, my brain continues, against my express wishes.

I try to ignore it as the van gets past security and turns left, away from me. Following at a safe distance, I try in vain to catch a glimpse of Gerard through the tiny back window.

One. In. A million, my brain emphasizes distractingly. If breaking out of prison was so easy, it would happen more often.

There is a length of road where the armored van and my parent’s car are the only vehicles in sight. As I pull up beside the van at an unnecessary stoplight, I tell my brain, True. But you’re forgetting something.

Oh? my brain sighs. What’s that?

I aim my gun at the nearest tire. There’s always gotta be that one in a million. The shot is loud, and the tire deflates immediately.

Fucking optimist, my brain mutters.

These cops have been trained for this type of ambush, though, and are barely shocked before they fire back. I duck down as glass shatters, then open my door slightly for a clear shot at the near back tire. The van tries to shudder forward, but all it accomplishes is a slow circle. I take this distraction to fire at the driver, no longer concerned about casualties. I hit the driver in the head, shattering his window in the process. The other reaches for the intercom, but I shoot it, surprised by my accuracy. The cop throws his door open, and steps out, hoping to get to better cover. Seeing my chance, I fling myself out of my seat and onto the asphalt. As soon as both of the cop’s feet are on the ground, I fire at his ankles. The first shot misses, but the second hits home. Six of seven bullets. When he falls, I get him in the head. Seven of seven. What am I supposed to do about the ones in the back?

Then my brain makes sure I know what an idiot I am, and directs me to snag the dead cops’ guns. Apprehensively, I creep to the back. They’ll shoot me once I open this door.

He saved you, my brain says. Now it’s time for you to save him.

Bracing myself, I reach out to grab the handle, but before I can, the door slams into my face. I stumble backwards, hand to my bloody nose. Don’t fail Gerard! my brain shouts, and I raise my gun, trying to see.