I write psychological thrillers focused on mental health, identity, and the consequence of actions-or inaction. My novels are often character-driven through unreliable narrators and internal conflict that lead to moral ambiguity.
Gary made a bet with himself as he heard sirens grow louder. I wonder what it will be this time: police car, firetruck, or ambulance. He guessed a firetruck and his other self went with a police car. Victory went to his other self when police cars came drifting around a corner, burning tire tracks into the road. He continued walking, well, someone really fucked up.
Within seconds more police cars screeched around another corner, leaving more tire tracks. They all turned and blocked the streets. Gary looked, but saw no one else around him. The officers rushed out of their cars and stood with their guns drawn behind open doors. Damn, y'all. Watch where you're pointing those things. Gary thought and continued walking, dragging his feet.
The officers shouted, “STOP WALKING AND GET ON THE GROUND!”
Gary heard them but he couldn't make out the actual words. It sounded like someone tried yelling while underwater. So, he continued walking and his personal narrator helped entertain him with city tours.
As he sipped his Dunkin’ iced coffee, it made sure to point out the fifteenth Starbucks he passed with another one coming up. Then his narrator provided entertainment with a sudden explosion that eliminated a sixteenth building and a new Dunkin’ emerged in its place. His celebration of cheers and waving flags cut short by a shout through a megaphone and this time the words were crystal clear.
“STOP WALKING AND GET ON THE GROUND OR WE WILL OPEN FIRE!”
“Alright, alright, I'm going. Calm down, I'm going.” Gary lowered down to his knees. “Let's just calm down now.”
Gary chuckled in disbelief while tiny pieces of gravel stabbing into his knees like a million tiny little knives kept him grounded in reality. An officer began reading his rights as they pulled his arms down to cuff them.
His stomach tightened as he held in laughter, which he tended to do when stressed out. He felt the second cold, steel cuff lock around his wrist. Oh shit, this is real. And laughter poured out of his mouth.
“Are you laughing?” an officer asked.
“I mean, not intentionally. But yes, unfortunately,” Gary said.
“You do know that we are arresting you for murder, sir?” chimed in a second officer.
“Well, no. In fact, I wondered when I wou-” Gary couldn't finish his sentence as he burst out in laughter that shook his whole upper body like a bumpy city bus ride.
They pulled him up to his feet, mumbling to each other. They were convinced he actually lost his mind. Gary knew he didn't kill anyone, but still argued with himself. His thoughts raced back and forth in his mind, an internal interrogation if he committed murder.
The belief he didn't kill anyone outweighed the belief he did. But the fact of there being room for doubt had him examining parts of his brain he never had before. The realization he is being put in a police car and taken to jail—possibly forever—cut the interrogation short.
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