Do You Ever Wonder? Why?

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I wish you could hear the sound of this. The morning groans of a 20 something year old female going through a quarter-life crisis. It’s me. I am she. Wondering is pretty much all I do these days. Questions about life and about the senselessness of our world are seemingly my oxygen. I have no time to linger in my thoughts, however. It’s an important day. Not for me but I’m sure for someone in the world. For me, it’s the same routine. So, out of bed I go and into the kitchen. Fast forwarding through the monotony of this particular Monday morning, I find my shoes clicking against the pavement. They annoy me. Then again, everything annoys me.

I have to admit, I’m terrified of New York. The Big Apple. The successful, creative and vibrant city that never sleeps. Doesn’t anyone find that excruciatingly wrong? Not sleeping? It goes against nature. Everything sleeps. Well, except for dolphins but they terrify me too.

Do you know the number of people murdered here in one day? No? Me either. I’m assuming it’s a lot. Especially, since I’ve been binging FBI recently. I love crime shows and it’s made me a natural. Just kidding. I’m a wimp. But films, documentaries, TV, and really anything that’s founded on the basis of storytelling has a way of making me feel unstoppable. Who am I kidding? I’m probably just depressed.

Into the alley I go. This part of my work route never fails to alarm me. Again, maybe I should stop watching so many crime shows. Unfortunately, this route is the quickest and I can’t afford to be late. At least, those are the words my boss continues to reiterate. I swear, she’s a cross between Miranda Priestly and Cruella de Vil. Minus the fashion sense. Minus the puppies.

The alley is always darker than I remember. Something smells of mildew and rotting. “Please don’t be a dead body. Please don’t be a dead body.” I plead in my head. I always think the worst. It’s what makes me so charming.

I sip the coffee from my cup which I grasp tightly in order to calm myself down.

I choke.

It’s disgusting.

Who made this?

Then I remember, I did.

In seconds, I regret heckling my barista skills, when I find myself on the floor and the contents of my cup exposed and sinking into the cracks of the pavement. I should’ve mentioned I’m clumsy. What I am not, however, is prepared for the next set of events.

Blood.

Blood? On my hand? No. Wait. Yes. But it’s not my own. I don’t know how I know it’s not my own. It just doesn’t look like it. The dead body next to me doesn’t look like me either. I do a double take. “Dead body.” I mumble to myself in suppressed panic.

Hyperventilation sets in.

Panic attacks are not new to me.

It’s an older man lying in a puddle of his own crimson liquid. My body tries to calm itself down and begins to shake.

I know I’m safe when I start to shake.

I tell myself to be brave. This has no effect on me and I find myself crawling backwards in hopes of distancing myself from the body.

I stare.

I stare at him for a second. I see what I think is him breathing but realize he couldn’t possibly be. The two bullet holes in his head wouldn’t allow it. So, I take a closer look. I don’t know why I do. I feel I have to.

I hold one finger under his neck and lay the other directly under his nose.

No pulse.

No breath.

He’s dead.

I take one more deep breath in then decide to look through the pockets of his vintage coat. Maybe I can find some ID. “Call the police.” I think to myself but I keep digging. Into the pockets my hand goes, and I don’t give up. Then, I feel it.

Something hard.

Something small.

I reach further in and pull out a small black notebook. It’s simple but beautiful.

I shouldn’t. I should. I shouldn’t. I should.

I go back and forth with this thought for what seems like minutes. Tired of my own indecisiveness, I give in. The pages make a flipping sound as all pages do but to my surprise it’s empty. At least, I think it’s empty until I stumble across the page. The page with all the markings. Streamlined with black ink and unfamiliar symbols.

The numbers 5, 6, and 29 are sketched into the margins along with what seems to be a name. Peter Black.

I notice it. Something. Something under him. “Call the police.” I try to convince myself, but I don’t listen. I don’t take orders from anyone these days. Not even my self-centered ego.

So, I pull it out from under him and discover it’s a brief case.

Black. Leather. Real leather.

Images from every Martin Scorsese film flood my mind telling me to leave it and return to my self-deprecating and toxic work environment. However, that seems irrelevant and so much less intriguing.

Numbers.

Written down.

Black briefcase.

“A combination?” I formulate. I turn the briefcase around to expose a numbered lock to the light. “A combination.” I assure myself. Slowly I click each number from the notebook into the briefcase. The numbers, 5, 6, and 29 send a clicking sound through the air. It unlocks and so does the part of my brain responsible for curiosity and I open it. Simple as that.

Exhale.

Exhale.

Exhale.

I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. My breath is gone. There must be over a million.

Dollars.

Over a million dollars in this suitcase. Enough for one person to never have to work another day in their life.

Inhale.

Finally.

There's no time for comprehension. An echo of voices comes from around the corner. I gasp in dramatic behavior and turn my head to see two men standing at the far end of the alley. One small. One large.

“You’re literally so stupid! How could you forget the body bag?” The small one says to the other man.

“Ay, it’s not my fault, you wouldn’t let me have breakfast this morning. Breakfast is good for the brain and the brain controls memory. You see where I’m going with thi— “

“Ah, shutup.”

The small man reaches up and smacks the other right behind the head.

“Ow!” The large one exclaims.

They freeze.

I freeze.

They see me.

“H—hey! What are you doing!?”

I can’t tell which one said this, but it doesn’t matter. They’re after me and I’m bolting for the streets faster than Mr. Hussein Bolt himself.

Ok. So…no because I’m not fit whatsoever but it was just for dramatic purposes. Get over it.

Get over the fact that I’m running down the street with what may be more than a million dollars of stolen cash under my arm.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

I’m shaking. I always feel safe when I start to shake but this time I can’t tell if it’s anxiety or my cold apartment because I’m in the living room scared half out of my wits.

Jessie sits in front of me. Light brown hair, dad bod and little nerdy but he’s my best friend.

“Let me get this straight.” Jessie says, leaning forward in his chair and clasping his hands. He continues. “You found a dead body…WITHOUT ME!?”

“Well, it’s not like I was intending to! What, do you think? I woke up this morning and thought to myself, ‘You know what would be funny? If I intentionally made Jessie mad today by accidentally stumbling across a dead body.’?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He jokes badly.

I groan. There’s a beat.

Silent for him.

Loud for me.

“That’s not the only thing.” I say. He looks at me in anticipation.

The blanket around me is thrown off my shoulders and onto the floor. I stand up. I walk over to the briefcase on the table.

Numbers.

Written down.

A briefcase.

A combination.

CLICK.

I face it towards him to reveal the money. He rises immediately.

“That’s—that’s—“. He can’t say it, but I already know. So, I say it. “I know.”

We both look at each other confused, excited and dreadfully confused. A knock comes at the door and makes us jump back. Jessie covers my mouth then motions me to shush. The knock comes again. I jump uncontrollably.

Jessie tip toes towards the door.

“No.” I tell him. Only I forget to say it out loud and before I know it’s too late.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

I shut my eyes tight.

Nothing.

I open my eyes. Jessie is still standing there. Standing still.

“Jessie?”

As his name stumbles out of my mouth he falls to the floor.

Blood.

Blood?

I run towards him but can’t reach him.

The door is kicked in revealing the small and large men from the alley. One of them is holding a gun but I can’t remember who because I shut my eyes so tightly.

Nothing.

I’m expecting them to shoot but nothing happens.

I open my eyes.

BANG. BANG.

Black.

Nothing.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale

Exhale.

Exhale.

Exhale.

Exh—

I wish you could hear the sound of this. Wondering is pretty much all I do these days. Questions about life and about the senselessness of our world are seemingly my oxygen. I have no time to linger in my thoughts, however. It’s an important day. Not for me but I’m sure for someone in the world. For me, it’s the same routine.