The Movement

Chapter Three - Part 3

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Troy awoke in a bloody mess, sprawled out across the bathroom stall floor. It was dark. His face and sides ached in extreme pain. He moved his arm to push himself up.

“Ugh” he moaned.

Every movement hurt more than the last. Finally, after ten minutes, Troy moved himself up to his knees. He grabbed ahold of the railing mounted against the stall and lifted himself up slowly. He looked around. The window was dark, nearly pitch black. He unlocked the door and walked out of the stall, then the bathroom. The hallways were dark. The large hallway clock read eleven thirty three. Troy didn’t bother to think, it was too painful. He began dragging his painful body down the hallway before making it to his feet to begin his limping walk home. After much time and effort Troy made it under the bridge overpass.

“Hey!” whispered a strange voice.

“Hey!” repeated the voice.

Startled by the unusual, unexpected voice, Troy jumped and looked around, head on a swivel, fidgeting eyes.

“Over here! Up Here!” shouted the strange, whispering voice.

Troy saw a dark apparition sitting up on the concrete hill, where the bottom of the bridge meets the neighborhood’s ceiling.

Hesitant and curious, Troy asked through his swollen, bloody mouth, “Are you talking to me?”

“Shhh!” shushed the voice, was now waving his hand at him. “Come up here.”

Troy had lived underneath the bridge in his cardboard box the past four years, and never encountered an unfamiliar voice. Everybody knew everybody here. But on this unusual night, on his usual evening walk from school, an eerie voice whispered from the top of the overpass. Troy could not fight his curiosity. He began to climb up the concrete hill to meet the strange voice.

“Hey dere, I’m Paul Silliman. What’s ya name?” greeted the voice, offering a handshake.

Troy firmly grabbed the cold, strong hand. Although the dark night blocked out much of Paul’s face and body, Troy could see that Paul was younger than he expected, perhaps in his mid-to-late 20s.

“Hello. My name is Troy. Are you from around here?” he mumbled slowly, letting go of the firm handshake.

“Shoot son, what the hell happened to you?” questioned Paul with more curiosity than concern.

“Clearly, I got beat down by some cocaine addicts,” said Troy, rubbing his hand over a large lump on the back of his head. “Are you from around here?”

“Aw mane, sowwee ta hear dat. Naw, I’m from upstate. I moved here afta I lost muh job last monf,” explained Paul.

“Oh. Where did you work, if you don’t mind me asking?” said Troy.

“I was a cop, but our station got shut down after some prob’lms a few years back, killed a few protestas at the rallies, but now I’m hurr in the same position dey’re in! Ha! Darn crazy world we livin’ in!” whispered Paul in his raspy voice.

Troy offered an artificial grin, then his heart dropped. He wondered if it was the same cops who murdered his father, but did not want to cause any problems with this unfamiliar, large man, especially in his current painful state.

“You…did you ever kill anybody?” catechized Troy, trembling.

“Naw, I ain’t kill’d nobody. Neva. But da station was cleaned out shortly afta, regardless if we was involved o’ not. They says we coulda stopped the otha cops from killin’ them protestas. I guess they was right, but how was we ‘sposed to know they was gonna kill ‘em?” he replied, innocently.