Robbers (The 1975//Matty Healy)

Robbers (Matty Healy)

".... And police still haven't caught the culprit, though officers say they have a few strong suspects..."

My television drones on. The news lady was talking with a serious tone as if the cops were finally going to catch him. Or her.

The police had been trying to track down this robber who had been breaking in to people's homes and robbing them of their most valuable possessions. It's been five months since they started robbing people in the city, and the cops haven't even got what gender the robber is.

It was two in the morning and the thunder storm had kept me up. I'm not too fond of storms, I enjoy light rain showers but storms aren't exactly my favorite.

Just as I was about to turn my tv off and hide from the weather, there was a brutal knocking at my apartment door.

"Who the fuck would be at my door now?" I thought out loud as I wrapped a blanket around myself and made the journey from my couch to the door. I hadn't bothered to look through the peephole because I honestly couldn't give any less of a damn. Whoever it was was gonna get a swift kick to the ass for bothering me so late.

I swung the door open trying my best to seem intimidating, but I was met with a lanky boy who looked worried.

"Th-thank g-god, you a-answered!" He had a british accent. I looked him up and down, he was dressed in all black and he was soaked to the bone. His eyes looked hazy and his lids were drooping. He had one arm tucked under his other, over his ribs almost.

"Um.. Can I help you?" I asked. He suddenly started to sway, but steadied himself on the doorframe.

"Aa-actually y-yes." He leaned more on the doorframe. "Y-you see," he raised his arm that was previously over his side. "I seem to have been shot." His hand was covered in a sticky red substance. He suddenly collapsed forward, falling on to me, luckily I caught him (barely). "S-so-sorry, love." He groaned.

I dragged him over to my couch and gently laid him down. He was coughing and groaning, clutching his side.

"You need to go to a hospital." I said sternly.

"N-no! I can't!"

"Why not?"

"Um I'm afraid of hospitals?" It was more of a question than a statement. "Doctors freak me out!"

"I don't care! You've been shot!" I said.

"Please! I just I can't go!"

"Why?"

"I just c-can't o-okay..." He groaned.

"Fine you're just lucky I know first aid!" I went to go grab my first aid kit.

I left him laying on the couch.

He laid back, less worried. He looked over at my television that I hadn't been able to turn off.

I walked back in to see him still watching the news. I knelt down next to him and began to remove his shirt. It was black so I had hardly been able to notice the gaping hole in the material or the blood seeping through the fabric.

He had been shot twice. I quickly got to work. He had done a damn good job of keeping pressure and stopping it from bleeding out.

I zoned out as I worked on his wounds but the TV still droned on.

"...there have been a total of over one hundred robberies in the past five months...."

He suddenly chuckled a little.

"What's so funny?" I asked, genuinely confused.

He answered lazily, "T-they're talking about me."