Free The First Cut by John Kenyon Page A

Situational Darkness. He looked up to determine the cause and realized he was at the center of the blackout. A high-power LED on the nearest sensor tower shot a beam at his head and an automated voice declared, “Jack Simmons, you are being detained for treason! Your thoughts have been recorded and have been found to be in violation of Patriot Act II’s Treason Deterrence Protocols. Remain in position until an officer can apprehend you.”
    He knew it was futile to run. The sensors could track him anywhere. He must have messed up the foil hat, and the police, growing craftier by the day, likely figured out that he was testing the system earlier and waited for an infraction worth prosecuting.
    As he contemplated his fate, he saw people gathering in the shadows of the Situational Darkness. At first just a handful, but the crowd soon grew. They advanced, weapons in hand, to exact their own justice. Mob punishment was not only legal, but encouraged because it saved money. Because the TreasonCams were infallible, there were no trials or appeals. Scooping a bludgeoned suspect’s remains from the sidewalk was cheaper than apprehending and housing him, so any police response would surely be a long time coming.
    The citizens gathered around him in a circle, chanting as they had been taught on television, “Kill the traitor! Punish the treason! Protect the country!” The first blow drove Jack to his knees, the next brought him to all fours. With each strike, Jack couldn’t help but think of the zombies of old outlawed movies, mindless beasts bent on destruction in the name of self-preservation. As the last of his blood leaked onto the sidewalk, weapons were sheathed and neighbors started to discuss the coming football game and reality TV results as they walked back to their homes.
     
     
     
     
     

 
    Countdown
     
    10...
     
    We were so close that her heart and my heart were touching, as if fused together. She looked up at me, her eyes clouded with confusion.
    “What do you mean?” she said.
    “I have a confession,” I said. “I’m afraid it’s going to tear us apart, but I can’t keep on like this.”
    “Oh, God. I should have known,” she said. “Too good to be true. What, you’re married?”
    “No. Remember when you said it was the worst thing and the best thing to ever happen to you? Well, please keep both possibilities in mind.”
     
    9...
     
    It was the first time we had made love with the lights on. It wasn’t teen-aged apprehension or the shame of flabby thirty-somethings gone to seed. There were simply things she didn’t want me to see. I knew they were there. They didn’t affect me. At least not the way she thought. She was worried about the surface, how she looked. But I was in love, and appearances didn’t matter. She was beautiful, and the flaws did nothing to take away from that. She was baring herself to me. I felt like it was time to reciprocate.
     
    8...
     
    “I really don’t mind the scars.”
    She stood looking at herself in a full-length mirror affixed to the back of the bedroom door. She turned this way and that, twisting to find the right angle to take in another part of her body. In bra and panties, the scars were clearly visible. They snaked up her forearms, made red splotches on her lower legs and angry welts along her neckline.
    “You don’t mind them, do you?” she asked.
    “No,” I said. “Now come to bed, and this time let’s leave the light on.”
     
    7...
     
    "I don’t know how I would have gotten through this without you,” she said.
    She sat next to me on the couch in my apartment, her legs up under her, her head on my chest. I didn’t respond, simply ran my fingers through her hair. It had grown out into a bob that made her seem younger.
    “I kind of feel like I’m falling for you,” she said.
    “That’s not a surprise,” I said, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her upright. “I’ve been taking care of you.”
    “No,” she said. “It’s