Sunshine heist

“And today there seems to be a break in the clouds finally, as the sun is shining through for the first time in weeks. Take advantage, folks. Get out there and soak up these rays.”

Like every other morning, I leaned against the kitchen counter, eating my bland bowl of oatmeal as I watched the news. My two daughters hurriedly moved around me, gathering their school books and lunch bags all the while arguing about who gets the allowance this week. I couldn’t be bothered with them right now so I don’t engage or even try to mediate the conflict. They have this argument far too often for me to care anymore, so naturally, I tune them out. I bring my attention away, becoming absorbed by the specks of dust floating in the streams of sunlight, half listening to the weatherman, half aware of the bustling energy around me. Finally, they grab their toast from the toaster and as they start to make their way out of the house to catch the school bus, I snap back into reality just in time to wish them a good day.

I begin to process the weatherman’s last statement. Get out there, huh, another sign I should leave the house today. To be completely honest, I didn’t want to leave the house. It’s easier and much more tempting to just hide away and avoid the reality of adulthood. But today, I had stuff to do. Important stuff. Important “adult” stuff that I’ve been averting for far too long. I mean, I could probably get away with putting it off another day, another week, maybe another month. But even just thinking about that gives me more anxiety and worry. So, I made the authoritative decision to just go and get it over with. Today, I was to go to the bank and ask for a loan. Trust me, I feel the shame of having to ask for hand-outs but I have no other options at the moment. We’re way behind on our bills and the monthly payments have been extended for three months now. Debt is racking up quickly and my unconcerned husband has been doing nothing to help out with the finances. He was laid off from his job a while back and has recently slid into a long-standing depressive episode, leaving me to handle things on my own. It also doesn’t help that my daughters are constantly asking for a raise in their weekly allowances. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. I really do. But sometimes, I would give anything to just have a break from it all. The stress. The financial worries. The arguments. The lack of cooperation. Everything. It’s just too much.

I placed my bowl in the sink, turned off the kitchen tv and went to get ready for my outing. My husband was still in bed, fast asleep. I walked past our room, into the bathroom and put on some blush and mascara. My routine was minimal these days. Wake up. Eat. Throw some makeup on. Brush my teeth. Brush my hair. That’s it. And I like it that way. The simplicity of it. I never understood how some people could take hours to get ready. It’s absurd, really.

A few minutes later, I kissed my husband on the forehead, said goodbye and soon found myself in the car heading towards the city. The drive was nice. The early sun was shining bright with few clouds in the sky. The radio was playing my favourite 80’s throwbacks (a guilty pleasure of mine) and I suddenly felt the excitement of being out of the house. I forgot how refreshing it was to just be outside, to be a part of the outside world. Despite just going to the bank, it was somewhat exciting. Adventurous, almost.

After 20 minutes of driving, I parked alongside a tall building which housed multiple office centres, a Starbucks, and the bank. I almost went into the coffeeshop to treat myself to a cappuccino, but the lineup was way too long for my liking. So, I headed straight into the bank as originally planned and thankfully, it wasn’t busy. Just me and one other man. There were two middle-aged ladies working, both of whom were helping him with something.

“If you could just take a seat, Miss, I’ll be with you shortly,” the one lady smiled at me.

“Sure, of course.”

I looked around and saw a coffee machine beside the couch area. I mean, the coffee was probably a cheap Folgers-like brand, but oh well, I’ve never been picky with my coffee. I went and grabbed a styrofoam cup and began filling it up. It was only halfway filled until suddenly, I heard screams. Loud, ghastly screams. I jolted my head towards the front desk, seeing the two ladies with their hands up and the man with a look of absolute horror on his face. I was scared to look towards the door but my natural instincts had already turned my head in that direction. My feet froze into place. My guts quenched into a tight ball, causing me to feel nauseous and unable to breathe fully. My chest felt like it had shrunk down, pressing into the front side of my now throbbing heart. The moment was overwhelming. I was staring at three masked men, all of whom were holding handguns and black duffel bags. I was witnessing a bank robbery.

“GET ON THE GROUND. GET ON THE GROUND NOW.” One of the men yelled with a stern roughness. Afraid to make one wrong move, I complied immediately. My gaze remained glued to them as I slowly lowered myself down. They moved together as a unit towards the counter. The man who was previously being helped by the bank tellers started running towards the side door exit. I prayed that he would make it but before he could take his fourth stride, one of the men shot him. Just like that. He fell to the ground immediately, blood profusely spilling from his back. My head whipped back to the men, my eyes locking with one of them. He was quiet. He hadn’t said a word since he entered the building. Like he was there solely for moral support. In that moment of our eyes meeting, I could see the guilt and fear within him. I could see just how badly he didn’t want to be doing this. As if he got roped in by his buddies, entangled in their mess, which now became his own.

Loud cries continued to fill the air. The ladies were absolutely distraught by what they were experiencing. I mean, who wouldn’t be? This is every bank teller's worst nightmare. Their hands shook wildly as raucous sobs left their throats, following the orders from the man who pulled the trigger. They were grabbing bundles of cash, filling the duffel bags as he demanded them to hurry.

I can’t describe the feeling. The feeling of knowing you’re about to die. It’s weird, really. You would think there would be more fear as you clung to life. But that wasn’t the case for me.In fact, all I could think about was my journal. Pathetic, right? I’m on the brink of death and my mind is tethered to the little black book that I keep inside my bedside drawer. My “burn book” if you will. You see, most people journal about their hopes and dreams for the future. But me? No. I write every little thing that annoys me about the people in my life. Within those pages you’ll find never-ending rants about my husband’s lack of will, my daughters’ irritating disputes and the everyday discontentment of being broke. I’ve written things in that book that I wouldn’t dare say out loud. I don’t feel bad about it or anything. It’s just how I cope. I can’t help but to think about what I’d be leaving behind. Even more, I’m caught up in wondering how my family’s perceptions of me would change once they got a hold of that small black book. Right now, I’m not afraid of death itself. No, no, no. I’m afraid of the repercussions of death. The aftermath. The rubble from the destruction. If I died today, I can only hope that my family never finds that book. I can only hope to be remembered as the loving, hard working mother that I know I am. So I stand there, praying. Longing for this to be a horrible nightmare. I wish I could wake up, but I can’t.

A few slow moving moments pass by and I’m still dazed by the unfolding events. Still hoping I could go home and burn that book. Still praying for this to soon be over. The ladies behind the counter continue to frantically handle the cash, filling the last bag. When they finally finish, the one man (the leader, I guess you could call him) zips it up and starts running toward the door. I hear the distant sounds of police sirens. My heart is beating so hard. So loud. Then I notice that the man whom I shared eye contact with, the quiet one, starts moving towards me. This is it. This is where it ends. I brace myself.

He grabs my upper arm and lifts me from the floor. My body is completely under his control right now and I feel the intense fear starting to creep in. He quickly leads me around the corner, out of sight from the others. I’m brought against the wall and I’m scared to look him in the eye. Absolutely distraught, I look around. There are no cameras. No eyes. No one to witness my last moments on earth. Tears start to uncontrollably roll down my cheeks. The black book finds its way back into my mind. Regret and anguish fill my being. The man reached into his bag and I instinctively close my eyes and flinch away, scared of what’s about to be revealed. But nothing happens during those painstakingly long three seconds. Suddenly, something is shoved into my arms. I mentally prepare myself and peek through my fluid-filled eyelids. That’s when I saw them. The two large bundles of cash. 20,000 dollars if I’m not mistaken.

“I’m sorry for the trouble.” A hushed, low tone reverberated my being. Before I could even process the moment, it had passed. The man had run away and I was left standing there in complete bewilderment. The background noise was drowned out by the beating of my loud, thumping heart and my shallow breaths. Without thinking, I quickly placed the cash deep into my purse. I turned back towards the ladies and the dead man lying on the floor. Feeling the lingering echo of the events. Did that really just happen?

I sauntered over and sat myself on the cold, stiff couch. I stared towards the window, observing the rays of light shining through, seeing how they illuminated the undisturbed specks of floating dust. The room was quickly filled with policemen and investigators. Flashing red and blue lights filled the window frame. The two ladies were led outside to be comforted and interviewed. And me? Well I couldn’t be bothered. Not in the least. I was entirely consumed by a particular feeling. A feeling that was weaving itself into the depths of my being. A feeling that I would lock away into my internal black book. That feeling was gratitude. I was grateful for that man. Extremely grateful, actually. I know what you’re thinking. How sick am I? To experience this and feel gratitude for it. But I can’t help it. I will always look back on this day and be thankful for him and what he did. I will forever be thankful for this day. This beautiful, sunshiny day.