Resensitize
An Experimental Story
A crisp ding. Worn elevator doors stutter. Four pairs of composite-toes clip across tile. Boots wade through shallow carpet. Tactical whispers. Shuffling. Knuckle bone tat-tat-tat on a thin wood door. Words hurled into the door with authority. Muffled scrambles from beyond. More commanding words. A medium-rare fist pounding the door thump-thump-thump. Nervous teeth squish gum.
A taut quiet.
Concussive pressure. Gun shots pop. Wood crackles, splits, and snaps. Drywall crumbles. Bullets crack air. Inner-ear bells ring. Shouts. Cries. Pop-pop-pop. Clicking stove pilot. Tickticktick. Pained expletives, spittle through teeth-pinched lips. Small muted cries. Glass shatters, sprinkles. A long scream. A rushing of boots. Debris being trampled. Drywall crunches under thick soles. A primal yell. Pop. Glass bursts apart on tile, returning to sand. A woosh of heat. Expletives. Guns crack with recoiling laughter. Screams. Pop-pop-pop.
Tightrope silence.
Boots tread glass. Radio click. Codes called into shoulder. A shout. Aggressive gum chewing. Crying. Wood breaks, falls. Calls of comfort. More words to the shoulder. Glass ground into carpet, dematerializing. Boots. Soft cries, cotton words. Hushes, shushes. Kevlar whispering against denim.
The vertigo swirl of eyes spun behind closed lids.
A crisp ding.
Over-breathed air. Sour tang of cigarettes. Old aluminum and mildew. Caffeinated urine. Carpet cleaner. Dated fabric cleaned and stamped into oblivion. Lingering hotel disinfectant. Lemon verbena. Sandy cement drywall. Faint gun grease and velcro and kevlar. Recreational smoke. The bad breath of a half-dozen men. Heroin chemical tickle. A yeasty cloud of cheap alcohol.
Mint gum. Sweat.
The smell of money against money.
Sulfur and heat. Fire. Church candles. Incense and clay. Burnt asbestos. Singed insulation. Electrical current through rubber and copper, overloaded circuits. Wisps of soldering. An enticing finger of natural gas. Punchy burn of vodka. Iodine and operating room. Burning hair.
Pine and wood glue. Mint gum too long in the mouth. A comforting wisp of vanilla. Gun grease. Cotton and fabric softener. Rough fabrics and tactical oil. Cotton. Salty sweat. Sodium tears.
Residual dizziness, equilibrium whirlpool.
Over-breathed air.
The sinking ascension of the elevator floor. Clamy palms on warmed grips. A single drop of sweat sliding across the temple, past the ear. Unforgiving tile beneath thick soles. Tight bootlaces across the top of the foot. Tensile weakness of old carpet underfoot. Stiff kevlar choking, squeezing. The tight hug of government issued gear. A heft of raised firearm. The familiar placement of stock in shoulder. Muscles tense for fight over flight. Tat-tat-tat of knuckle bone on wood. Throat scrapes from thick and forceful use. Limp gum squishing between teeth. The heavy thump-thump-thump resistance of fist on closed door.
Shaky fingers squeeze triggers.
Eyes pinch closed, open wide.
Adrenaline flows, pumps the heart. Rabid lungs fill empty fill empty. The rigid shove of recoil with each squeezed finger.
A hard punch to the shoulder. Wetness where the punch hit. Warmth. Cold fear on the spine. Sandy drywall down the back of the neck. Tingling heat on skin. Dry eyes squeezed against flame. Acute elbow joints loosen.
The resistant click of a shoulder radio button. Rapid gum chew, clenched jaw. Rasps of an unused voice. Tense muscles. Stomach uncoiling. Rigid intensity washed away, adrenaline ebbs. Face pulls tight into a smile. Radio button pinched. Hands reaching, lifting, gripping, being grabbed. Tiny arms around a sweaty neck. The tug of repressed emotion, in the throat, chest, eyes.
A rolling twirl in the dark.
The sinking ascension of the elevator floor.
Fuzz of morning breath. Bitter nicotine and old smoke. Chilling mint blankets the bitter fuzz. A tinge of warm salty sweat from the corner of the lips. Dust. Dirt. Chemical citrus pang in the air. The faint flavor of a hungry mouth. Old gas station coffee. Green leaf and dried buds and ash.
Smoke in the throat. Salty sting of more sweat. Blood on the air. Zinc and iron. Metallic copper saliva, nickel spit. The electric fizz of adrenaline. Heavy alcohol tingling lightly. Burning aluminum, singed hair. Smacks of grease and silicone and subtle latex.
The ghost of spearmint. Drifting coffee mingles with soft vanilla breath. Child’s shampoo.
Blind tailspin, full-body handshake.
Fuzz of morning breath.
The Four reflected in elevator doors. Glowing 3 button dims. Dun gold doors slide open. Cracked brown tile, diamond pattern. Horizontal stains low to the ground. Guns pointed at low obtuse angles for safety or small enemies. Signage for stairs. Old maroon carpet, tracks of activity woven in. Beige walls pocked with divets, scratches and holes. Room numbers at shoulder height. Room 413. An arm rises at a clean 90 degrees, fist clenched. Two’s eyes bounce to meet One’s. Bulky charcoal helmets bob and nod. One taps the door three times with his knuckle, knuckle, knuckle. Nervous eyes flick about: wall, door, gun, squad, door. One hits the door, door, door.
Holes appear in the wall above Three, chips of drywall fall and puff, Two’s muzzle flashes with bright flowers as One kicks in the door and someone stands from behind a mildew-green couch with a dark gun and an open mouth and then Three makes bright flowers and paints a trio of weeping red dots on the someones chest and another someone comes from the kitchen with a baseball pitchers arm, liquor bottle in hand, flaming rag stuffed in the top until Four makes bright flowers to burst the baseball and then the pitcher is on fire and swinging arms wild and probably dying and then its still.
Nothing moves. Dark crimson runs from Four’s shoulder. Two points adrenaline jittering fingers at the living room. There is a big wooden box with holes. Three opens it, smiles into it, waves over One. Three pinches the walkie, lips moving. One lifts a kid out of the pinewood box. The child koala-hugs One’s neck, limp and pale. One is crying.
Falling out of memory, through cosmic rinse cycle, into padded office chair.
The Four reflected in elevator doors.
“Its always your last piece, Jefé.”
“Not my fault your breath is ass.”
“413, yeah?”
“Yeah – safety’s off. We go in quiet. I’m point. Peach, you’re left. Ramos, take right. Jenkins, watch the hall.”
“GCPD. We received a call saying you’re threatening someone with a firearm – come out and let’s figure this out.”
“¿Nadie aquí?”
“Hear that? Somebody’s here.”
“GCPD! We know you’re in there, come–”
“Shit! Down, down!”
“Get on the ground! Get on–”
“¡Manos! ¡Manos arriba!”
“Ah, I’m hit. I’m hit. Fuck, ah, my shoulder–”
“Hey, drop it!”
“Oh, shit, put him out, put him out!”
“The fuck was that, Ramos?”
“You said put him out – I put him out.”
“Jesus, I meant with water. You know, agua?”
“Hey boss, I think there’s somebody in that.”
“Get it open.”
“On three: one, two, three!”
“Oh, shit. Boss, you better get over here…”
“Hey, let’s get you out of there – come here, it’s alright, you’re safe now, I got you, you’re alright, just close your eyes we’re going to get you out of here, shhhh, shh, shhhh, you’re okay, you’re going to be okay.”
An unspooling from memory.
Heath feels the cushioned chair beneath him, cool plastic against his forearms. He opens his eyes. The counselor lady leans in, tipped forward by the weight of responsibility. She smells like vanilla and looks very sad.
“Does that sound right?”
The incident report lay forever open on the table.
“Yeah, that’s how it was. Are we done?”
“Are you done? It’s okay if you want to talk about it. This was a very traumatic experience.”
“We been talking about it, we went over it like ten times, I’ve talked enough. I’m fine, really.”
The counselor lady doesn’t respond. The room breathes quiet and the incident report sits open on the table.
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“They’re my unit, my responsibility. Whatever happens is on me.”
“None of you knew there would be a child. You didn’t put her in that box. You didn’t put her in the crossfire.”
Heath scoffs, shakes his head, wipes his eyes.
“I know, I know that. I’m good. I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be fine. It isn’t weakness for the leader to ask for help, it could make the others feel comfortable asking for it for themselves. I know you want to help your unit.”
He smiles. It quivers. Sodium tears roll down his cheeks, into his lips. The smell of vanilla is an undertow, the taste of salt, a current. Heath is dragged back and away, drowning again.
And the incident report lay forever open on the table.
Huge thanks to Sean Thomas McDonnell for helping me get this one pointy, and thanks troy adkins for your patronage. Here’s two other experiments with form:
great work here, sensory overload for the win!
Love the imagery!