John Rector - Already Gone

But once they get me on the ground, facedown, with the big guy holding my arms and pressing his weight into my back, there isnt much I can do. I call them every name I can think of, but they dont say a word. I tell them they can take my wallet, my car, anything they want, if they just get the fuck off me. Still nothing. I try to roll to the side, but the big guy grinds his knee into my spine and pulls up on my arms. My shoulder starts to slip in the socket and I scream, more out of frustration than pain.

Inside the bar, everyone is still drinking. Doug is telling stories about the sixties and getting high with the Beats, while the rest of the faculty listens and laughs and pretends to be impressed. I know this because up until five minutes ago, I was one of them. Now Im out here with these two, and I have no idea who they are. Id seen them earlier, sitting at the end of the bar and staring at our table, but I didnt think anything of it at the time. It was a quiet place, and Doug was loud.

Everyone was staring. The only reason I noticed them at all was because of the jagged scar on the little ones neck. It ran from one ear to the other like a swollen pink worm, bright and impressive. After a couple drinks, I told everyone I had to get home to my wife. There were a few good-natured newlywed jokes that I waved off before getting up to leave. Someone, obviously drunk, said we should have all our department meetings in bars.

Everyone laughed. As I walked out, I didnt see the two guys at the bar, and I didnt notice anyone following me. Once outside, everything was quiet and dark. There was a soft breeze passing through the trees lining the parking lot, and the late summer air felt cool against my skin. I took the keys from my pocket and started walking. I was almost to my car when I heard footsteps coming up fast.

I turned, but it was too late. One of them hit me across the face, hard, and for an instant everything faded. Then the pain focused me and I started swinging. It was two against one, but I still managed to get in a few good shots before they took me down. Now Im here. This isnt the first time Ive been jumped, and since I dont see a gun, I figure everything will be okay.

A few bruises, wallet gone, nothing I cant walk away from. Then I see the bolt cutters. What the f Again, I try to struggle free, and again the big guy presses down on my back, harder this time, and all the air rushes out of my lungs. I cant breathe, and an explosion of tiny black flowers blooms behind my eyes. I taste the oiled surface of the asphalt on my lips and try to lift my head to see whats coming. Behind me, the big guy says something in a language I dont recognize, then the man with the scar and the bolt cutters steps closer.

I try to say something, anything, but there is no air and no voice. Dark shadows creep in along the edges of my vision, and I know Im close to passing out. My lungs burn. I barely notice the big guy prying my hand open. I bite the insides of my cheeks so hard I taste blood. It brings me back, just a little, but its enough.

I wont let myself pass out. I feel the cold metal blades slide around my finger, and I close my eyes tight. I wont pass out. A second later, the man with the bolt cutters leans forward. There is a quick, hard movement, and I hear something snap, loud and wet. The pain is stunning.

It screams up my arm and into my brain and then it is everywhere and I forget all about my lungs. Again, the dark shadows rush in from the edges like a flutter of wings, blinding me, turning the world black. This time, I let them come. When I open my eyes, the big guy is standing over me wiping his hands with a small white towel. Im on my back staring up at one of the streetlights in the parking lot. Hundreds of tiny bugs circle in the pale yellow glow.

It makes me think of winter and snowfall. The two men are searching the ground by my feet, ignoring me. A moment later, the one with the bolt cutters bends down and pushes my legs aside. When he stands, hes holding my severed finger by the tip. The streetlight reflects clean and gold off the wedding ring just below the knuckle. I want to stand.

I want to tell them not to take my ring, but I cant find the words. I try to sit up, but the pain in my ribs pushes me back. I dont have the strength to scream. I stay on the ground and listen to the breath rattle in my chest. I have to cough. I try my best to hold it in, but I cant, and this time I do scream.

The big guy bends down and reaches for my hand. I dont even try to fight. He takes the white towel he was using and presses it against the spot where my finger used to be, then he takes my other hand and holds it against the towel. Tight, he says. My left hand is warm and wet. I pull it in and squeeze it to my chest.

The towel is red with blood. The big guy stands and says something to the man with the bolt cutters. The man nods and starts walking across the parking lot. The big guy watches him go, then looks down at me and says, Nothing personal, okay? The accent is thick, and I cant place it. Fuck you, I say. It isnt much, but its all I have.

The big guy smiles, turns, and is gone. I stay on the ground, unable to move, staring up at the pale yellow light. I think about Diane and about the wedding ring Ive worn for the past month, the one Ill probably never see again. All at once, I feel like crying. Im not sure why.

You probably wont need surgery. This is good news. Anything is good news when youre on morphine. My hand is resting on a silver suture tray and covered in a cocoon of white gauze that makes my arm look like an oversized Q-tip. The doctor examines the bandage, then puts a hand on my shoulder and says, Youre not a piano player, are you? I ignore him and turn toward the cop sitting on the red plastic chair next to the bed. Hes talking to Diane, asking her if she knows of anyone who might want to hurt me.

He wants to know if I have any enemies. Diane is staring at the walls, the floor, her hands, anywhere but at him. There are tears on her cheeks, and when she speaks her voice is soft. No one, she says. Of course not. The cop looks at me.

How about you? Anyone out there holding a grudge? A grudge? Diane looks from me to the cop, then back. Over what? The cop stares at me, waiting. No, I say. I dont think so. The cop scribbles something in his notebook. What is he talking about? Diane asks.

Does someone want to hurt you? No. I shake my head. No one. I can tell Diane wants to say something else, but instead she just frowns and looks away. Nobody says anything for a while. Finally, Diane straightens in her chair and says, So, whats the next step? She reaches for my good hand, squeezes, then turns back to the cop.