11) Friday Night

He had drank too much.
He had taken too many drugs.
He couldn’t handle the cocktail of intoxicants in his body.
He hated himself.
He hated her, his so called girlfriend.
He hated them, his so called friends.
He wanted to kill himself.
He wanted to kill her.
He wanted to kill them.
He wanted to kill the world.
He lashed out with fists damaging property, damaging himself.
He ran. His friends followed. They were concerned for him.
A policeman saw he was in a bad way and came over to see him.
The policeman saw blood on his hands and asked what had happened.
“He’ll be fine,” said his girlfriend.
“He’s okay,” said his friends.
“He’s just a bit upset, that’s all.”
He hated himself.
He hated her, his so called girlfriend.
He hated them, his so called friends.
He wanted to kill himself.
He wanted to kill her.
He wanted to kill them.
He wanted to kill the world.
He saw the man from the pub he had just been in approach the policeman.
He heard the man from the pub tell the policeman what he had done inside.
He’d lashed out with fists damaging property, damaging himself.
The policeman turned and looked at him.
He ran.
Blood streamed from his hand. His hand really hurt. He couldn’t remember what he had hit. Why did his hand hurt so much?
The policeman caught him and took hold of him. Who did he think he was?
I pay my taxes. I pay his wages. He was bullied at school. He’s a black bastard. Who does he think he is?
He fights the policeman. He wants to get away.
He wanted to kill himself.
He wanted to kill her.
He wanted to kill them.
He wanted to kill the world.
The policeman wouldn’t let him. The policeman couldn’t let him. The policeman had a job to do and his job was to stop him from killing himself, from killing her, from killing them, from killing everyone.
He didn’t like the policeman very much.
There was blood everywhere. There was blood on the ground. There was blood on his hands. There was blood on the policeman’s jacket and trousers and boots.
The policeman wouldn’t let him go no matter how much he tried. No matter how much he fought. No matter how much he shouted. No matter the insults and no matter the threats.
He told the policeman he would rape his family. He told the policeman he would kill his children. He told the policeman that he would burn his house down if he didn’t let him go. He told the policeman that he was going to get away, to run away.
The policeman wouldn’t let him. The policeman couldn’t let him. The policeman had a job to do and his job was to stop him from raping people, from killing children, from burning houses down.
He was put into a cage like an animal would be. Small, confined, thick wire mesh and perspex windows.
He kicked the cage, he raged against the cage. He raged against the policeman. He told the policeman he was going to kill himself. He told the policeman he was going to kill his girlfriend. He told the policeman he was going to kill his friends. He told the policeman that once the handcuffs came off he was going to kill the policeman too.
The policeman opened the cage. The policeman had blood on his jacket and trousers and boots.
The policeman took him into the police station and took him to a small bare room. Roughly painted, a mattress covered in plastic and a toilet in the corner.
The policeman told him that he wouldn’t be killing anyone this night. Not himself, not his girlfriend, not his friends, and certainly not the policeman or the policeman’s family.
The policeman told him to get some sleep. To rest. He told him that everything would be so much better in the morning.
He laid down on the plastic covered mattress in the bare, rough painted room with a toilet in the corner.
And he slept.


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