A Killer Itch

Your Average Chicago Evening

"FIRE!!" The voice screamed, causing Ryan to freeze in place, concerned as to the fact the cops went from 'arrest' to 'kill em' in 2 seconds. Ryan frantically dove behind the kitchen counter as the chopper's guns roared to life. Whilst in cover, Ryan continued to itch his flaming arm. Figurative flaming.

"Well don't just stand there, someone grab the bastard!" The voice yelled, startling Ryan. Just what had he done to attract the attention of the military?!?! Ryan desperately crawled out of the apartment on all fours, purposely scraping his right arm on the floor. Once in the hallway, Ryan frantically scrambled downstairs, only to encounter a swarm of SWAT. Ryan sprinted up stairs, kicking open the door to the roof. Standing on the ledge over looking the street 7 stories below, Ryan scratched his arm. Really? Now? He turned around to see the massive swarm of police.

"Just put them up and walk here real slow. We won't hurt you." The voice called from above. Ryan looked at the police officers and considered their offer for a split second, until he looked into their eyes. These were people too. Even if he could, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to hurt these men and women who were just doing their jobs. Crap. Nothing annoyed Ryan more then guilt. Well, besides his infernal arm. The police were advancing. He didn't have a choice. He wasn't a fricking super hero or anything. He raised his arms, and stepped towards the cops.

Hours later Ryan was detained and handcuffed to a table for interrogation. He was desperately attempting to itch his arm. An officer with a small stache entered and looked at him quizzically before laughing.

"You're in a world of trouble sonny." He said before sitting opposite of him.

Ryan glanced up, unamused. He had been using the hand cuff to scratch his arm to the best of his ability. His shoulder hated him for this. Ryan decided to swallow his pride and try the hand had left.

"Mr. Officer, please. I don't understand what's going on, I don't know why I'm here, and I don't understand why I was even arrested in the first place. So if you could just-" the officer
made a chopping motion that cut him off.

"Sorry kid. But that is just not what we do here. You are here because of the substantial evidence we have received that paints you as a traitor to your country." The officer open the folder in front of him and began showing Ryan some pretty incriminating papers and images. Ryan's only problem with said papers and images was that there was no way he'd do that.

"Can I ask where you got those images and papers sir?" Ryan asked, worried the cop would see the fear building in him. There was no way he'd ever- now he was feeling rhetorical. But he was to busy panicking to care much about whether or not he thinking in circles.  The cop gave him a suspicious glance.

"Now why in the world would that matter? Even if I could tell, it was an unanimous tip. But that's not the matter. The issue is that you have evidently been involved in more felonies then I've seen in all my years combined. What do you have to say for yourself?" The cop asked, slowly losing his friendly tone. Ryan said nothing, and instead scratched at his arm uncomfortable with the handcuff. The cop glanced at his arm, surprised. Apparently he hadn't noticed it. The cop reached into his pocket and pulled out a key.

"Your arm isn't looking so good there. Now normally this would be against policy, but I'll go ahead and unshackle your right arm. Besides, what can a 17 year old boy in a police station possibly do?" The cop chuckled, freeing Ryan's arm from the burden of discomfort. Ryan got right to, scratch his arm like there was no tomorrow. And judging from how his day had been going so far, maybe there wouldn't be. The officer left the room, and as he said, what could Ryan do? He had abandoned all silly notions of escape. As he itched, he thought. Why was he here? Who had framed him? Could he escape? He seriously doubted it. But as he scratched, his eyes wandered over to the door. The officer hadn't locked it on his way out. This was risky. This was potentially the stupidest thing he'd ever do. But throwing caution to the wind, he did it anyway. He opened the door and slowly navigated the station, barely evading the platoon of officers. He managed to shimmy into a storage room, where he felt safe for a fraction of a second, until he heard movement outside. Ryan panicked. He had very little time to think.

Officer Davis opened the door to the storage room and walked in, looking for the crate containing this months coffee. He quickly found it on top of a cardboard box, and left as quickly as he had entered.

Beneath the cardboard box, Ryan was fairly convinced he had wet himself. Playing those video games had paid off. He ran as silently as he could until he reached the door. It was locked. Of course it was. He put both hands on the door bar as he thought about what to do next. He swore he could a bizarre noise coming from the other side of the door that distracted him. He leaned closer, but to his surprise, the door opened. Ryan looked around, flabbergasted. The bar and the lock appeared to have been melted. Ryan was wondering who or what did that when he heard a shout. They knew he was missing. He bolted outside into the crisp night air, leaving behind a whole station of very confused police officers.