The campus buzzed faintly with the last remnants of activity as students trickled out into the night. He lingered in the lecture hall, his eyes alight with curiosity, even as the clock inched closer to eleven, a whole hour past the end of classes. The discussion with his professor had stretched longer than he anticipated, a cascade of questions tumbling from his mind. A common occurrence, when the subject was about computers, or math, or space, or science, or technology, often he felt this engaged, this intricate dance of ideas weaving themselves into something beautiful and profound. But now, the room was silent, and his professor gave him a kind, though tired, nod. “We’ll continue this on the next class”, said the professor, and he finally rose, slinging his frayed backpack over his shoulder.
The night air was cool and sharp, nipping at his face as he stepped off campus and headed toward the bus station. His fingers instinctively checked his pockets, fumbling for spare change. Nothing. Of course. It wasn’t a shock, he rarely had enough for the bus. Walking was normal, a routine drilled into his body like muscle memory. “Just one more hour” he thought, it was actually a bit more than an hour, but it was close enough. After a full 8 hours shift at work and another 4 in classes, plus transport time for all of this, he was more than ready for his bed.
The streetlights buzzed faintly above as he started his journey home. His feet tapped against the cracked pavement in rhythm with the thoughts swirling in his head. He replayed fragments of the evening’s class, dissecting theories and piercing them back together. Each step seemed to ignite a new idea, a fleeting spark in the endless grind of work and study that defined his life. He felt a certain satisfaction in it, even if his legs already ached from standing all day.
It wasn’t until he turned onto a narrower, darker street that he realized he wasn’t alone. Three figures emerged from the shadows ahead, their movements sharp and deliberate. He slowed his pace, his thoughts shifting from intellectual musings to a quiet hum of unease. They approached him, blocking his path, their faces partially obscured by the dim light.
“Hey, kid,” one of them said, his voice rough but strangely casual. “What you got on you?”
He blinked, the words not immediately registering. What did he have? His mind scrambled to make sense of the question. Before he could answer, actually, before he could even understand the question, or what was happening, the others began rifling through his bag, pulling out his books, pens and an old, crumpled plastic water bottle. They seemed almost disappointed.
“This all you got?” another one muttered, holding up a battered, budget-print textbook.
An affirmative nod was all he could muster, still trying to make sense of the situation. “I’m just going home from college, walking as I don’t have money for the bus” he added almost automatically, as part of his brain was trying to take over the confusion that was his mind.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, one of them chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn, you’re serious”.
The first one patted him on the shoulder, a gesture so surreal it left him speechless, more speechless. “Keep studying, man. Maybe you’ll get out of here someday.”
“Good night”, another added with an almost mocking cheerfulness as they melded back into the darkness.
He stood frozen, his heart pounding, the weight of the encounter settling in only after they were gone. They were thieves. He should’ve been scared, but instead, he was confused, his mind trying to untangle the absurdity of it all. By the time he shook himself free of the daze, his legs had already carried him forward, the encounter fading into the background as something more immediate loomed ahead.
The Bridge.
It rose like a jagged wound against the night sky, its narrow pathway stretching endlessly over two highways and a river far below. His chest tightened as he approached, his footsteps faltering. The bridge was only two meters wide, with guardrails barely high enough to reach his waist. He knew it was safe, logically, theoretically, but that didn’t stop the primal terror that gripped him.
He hesitated at the edge, his pulse thundering in his ears. The world beneath seemed to spin, the lights of passing cars blurring into streaks of colors below. He forced himself to take a step, then another, clinging to the middle of the path as if it were a lifeline. Each step felt like a betrayal of his instincts, his legs trembling under him. The wind was stronger here, it was actually the same, but up there, it felt as if the wind had a mind of its own, trying to force him onto the edge, whispering fears he couldn’t silence.
Five hundred meters. Five hundred endless meters. Trembling step after trembling step. It felt like five kilometers.
He didn’t dare look down, focusing instead on the horizon, on the safety waiting on the other side. The thought of turning back was unbearable. There was no going back, not now. Not ever.
When he finally stepped off the bridge, his legs bucked slightly beneath him, but a flood of relief washed over him. He inhaled deeply, the ground beneath him solid and steady. His chest heaved with exertion, but for the first time in what felt like hours, he smiled faintly. The danger was over. He had made it across.
The streets ahead felt easier now, familiar and quiet. Only twenty minutes to go now, and he would be home. The gnawing hunger in his stomach made itself known, and his thoughts drifted to the meager kitchen that awaited him. There wasn’t much to eat, but surely he could find something. He imagined what he might throw together, though the ache in his legs made the prospect of cooking feel like climbing another bridge.
As he rounded the final corner, his house came into view, a humble, weathered building, now just some thirty meters away. The warm glow of a single light in the window greeted him like a beacon. Relief washed over him again, mingled with exhaustion and the faintest hint of pride. He had survived the night, and soon, he could rest. At this point, feeling already at home, his thoughts turned inward. What could he prepare quickly? Something simple, something fast, most likely eggs. His body begged for rest, his mind already shutting down, retreating from the trials of the night.
Then it happened.
“TO THE WALL!” The scream shattered his thoughts like glass, cutting the stillness of the street.
“TO THE WALL, HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!” another voice bellowed, raw and commanding.
His breath caught in his throat, and he turned instinctively, only to be blinded by a searing flashlight beam aimed directly at his eyes. Panic seized him. He couldn’t make out who was speaking, only the harsh, disembodied commands and the blinding light. Above the beam, something glinted, something metallic. What was it? His mind raced to piece together the image, but before he could, his body was wrenched sideways.
A force slammed him into the wall, hard. Pain exploded in his shoulders and knees as they hit the rough concrete of the unfinished wall, but the confusion overwhelmed the pain. He felt hands gripping him, shoving him harder into the wall, and his heart pounded in his ears.
“WHERE ARE THE DRUGS?” The voice was closer now, venomous, drilling into his skull.
“WHERE’S THE MONEY?” Another voice joined, barking questions that made no sense.
“I — I’m going home from college” he stammered, the words tumbling out without thought. They sounded pathetic, thin, lost in the cacophony of accusations and commands, still being shouted, but difficult to understand or register.
The hands on his body became rougher, searching, pawing at him as though he were hiding something. The “search” was violent, more a series of strikes than anything resembling a pat-down. Each shove and slap sent him staggering, his body rocking back and forth like a rag-doll, his only anchor the wall behind him.
And then he saw it.
The metal object he’d glimpsed above the flashlight was now unmistakable, a gun. The muzzle hovered mere centimeters from his head, its cold, black barrel fixed on him. His eyes locked onto it, unable to look away. His mind screamed at him to do something, anything, but his body was frozen. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
The flashlight illuminated the faint outline of a police car parked nearby, the blue paint barely visible against the darkness. The realization crashed over him, they are the police. The men gripping him, yelling at him, holding a gun to his head, they were supposed to be protectors. Yet here he was, pinned against a wall, their prey.
The screams continued, overlapping, chaotic. He couldn’t understand them anymore. The words blurred together into a senseless, menacing roar. His eyes flickered to the other figure, a second officer standing a few meters away, holding an even larger gun. It looked monstrous, like something out of an action movie, but there was nothing cinematic about this moment. That gun, too, was pointed at him.
Finally, the man with the flashlight and smaller gun stepped back slightly. The blinding beam remained fixed on his face, but the yelling softened. Not calm, never calm, but quieter, more deliberate. They exchanged words with each other, their tones still sharp and accusatory. No one asked for his name, no one demanded identification. He was a ghost to them, a nobody.
As abruptly as it began, the chaos started to subside. The officers seemed to lose interest, muttering something to each other as they prepared to leave. The man with the flashlight and gun barked a final warning:
“IF I SEE YOU ON THE STREET AGAIN, YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL!”
The words hit him like a slap, followed but an actual slap aimed to the face but that hit his ear with another shout “GET OUT OF HERE!”.
The flashlight clicked off, plunging him into the dim light of the streetlamps. He blinked, disoriented, his vision struggling to adjust. As the officer with the larger gun climbed into the car, the man with the smaller gun leaned closer, his voice low and cutting.
“Straight home, nigga.”
The word slithered into his ears, still aching from the slap, vile and corrosive. He flinched, as though it were another blow. Then they were gone, their car speeding off into the night, leaving only silence behind.
His house was just steps away now, but each one felt impossibly heavy. His legs moved mechanically, his mind blank, his body numb. The hunger that gnawed at him moments ago was gone, replaced by a hollow void. He wasn’t tired anymore. He wasn’t anything anymore.
As he reached his gate, he turned to look back at the street, at the place where it had all happened. His home, once a sanctuary, now felt like an afterthought, an illusion of safety. His hands trembled as he fumbled for his keys, but he didn’t notice.
Inside, the warmth of the single light did nothing to ease the chill in his bones. The exhaustion, the hunger, the ache in his muscles, they were nothing now, dwarfed by something deeper, sharper.
A new trauma had been born, raw, unyielding. It wore uniform and carried a gun. It barked commands and left him shattered. It wasn’t just fear he carried now, it was something heavier, something permanent.
Something blue.
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Based on true facts.
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