Free Skyfire by Doug Vossen Page A

Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.  I’m better than this.  She placed the palms of her hands onto the toilet seat, lifted her right leg and rested her body weight on her left knee and palms.  She deliberately breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, repeating self-affirming thoughts.  This is my existence.  I am in control of my own reality.  This is my existence. I am in control.
    She calmed down after a few minutes and arrived at a decision.  She would pack a bag right now and find out what was happening outside .   She grabbed her favorite satchel; it doubled as both a large purse and a laptop bag adorned with safety pins, a fifteen year-old Nine Inch Nails patch, and a ‘C. Kennedy’ patch carefully embroidered into the back of the top flap.  She quickly changed into her favorite pair of black jeans and knee high boots.  I need to get out of here.  Something isn’t right.  I have never been this scared in my own home before.  I am in control of my own reality. 
    She threw on a black tank top and packed another in her bag, along with socks, underwear, toiletries, a four inch retractable pocket knife, and her zip lock bag of sativa with rolling papers.  In a flurry of movement, she also grabbed some miscellaneous canned and dry goods, as well as some old bottled water. She put on her favorite leather jacket as she walked to the door, closed it behind her and locked it.  It was 4:30am.  Fucking awesome. Now what?
    Sunlight was just beginning to peek over the once pristine beauty of the Manhattan skyline.  Callie returned to her typical calm demeanor. She attributed her episode in the bathroom to repressed mental health issues.  I need to figure out what that thing over the city is and why my goddamn iPhone and TV aren’t working.  Oh yeah, and the hundreds of fucking dead people all over the place.  That might be a good thing to look into, too. 
    The next logical step to Callie was to go to the West New York Police Headquarters building.  The station was a quarter mile west of her apartment building, on the same street.  She lit a joint and began strolling down 60 th Street.  Jesus Christ, I’m smoking a fat J as the sun is rising, stepping over dead bodies littering the street on my way to the police station.  On my way to the police station voluntarily!  Who would have guessed this would happen only a few hours after grinding my lingerie clad ass on some gross Arab dude’s denim cock.  Wow.  Good job, me you really won at life. 
    The calming, focusing grip of the sativa took hold on Callie’s body two blocks from the police station.  She walked up the stairs of the building and tried to open the door.  It was locked .   She peered inside and saw a makeshift barricade apparently trying to keep anything and everyone out.  Great, Palisades Medical version 2.0.  She clamored down the stairwell, looking for a service entrance into the basement for maintenance workers or subcontractors. 
    The service entrance door was locked.   Great. What’s around here? Callie scanned her surroundings for anything she could use to break a window . She spotted a loose cinder block and picked it up.  No , this isn’t weird at all. Just some stripper in black clothes, high as fuck, trying to find a window so she can break into a police station.  Her window of choice was on the ground floor on the west side of the building.  It was poorly boarded from the inside.  She threw the cinder block through the glass, kicked in the boards.  Well, up and over.
    Callie landed gracefully on her feet.  Fuck yeah, pole dancing tricks for the win.   She looked around. A sign indicating reception was just ahead, to the left up a short stairwell.  Everything seemed relatively normal until she approached the front desk in the waiting room.  A lone female police officer sat in the chair, her head slumped down as if she were a high school sophomore sleeping through geometry. 
    “Officer! Hi, my