I'm Not Sorry
I’m not sorry.
Even as they kicked in the door, lights slicing through the darkness like my knife through their flesh, searing away my smothering blanket with ease. I didn’t even stop sewing as they filed into the room, their pistols raised and ready to fire. I could smell the gunpowder coming into the air; what was normally crisp and sterile now smelled of sweat.
I stick the needle into the stretch of leather and begin sewing another piece to the rest of the mask I’m making. I doubt I’ll get to finish it, but hey, I’m not one to quit unless forced. They’re saying something now, a loud man violating my personal sanctuary with his disturbing penchant for yelling. I hum to the tune of the radio, listening to Dusty Springfield sing of her despoiled youth with the son of a minister.
Ahh… this is quality music, I must say.
Oh, now they’re trying to get past the chain link fence I’ve set up. Judging by the fresh smell of burnt hair, I’ll gamble one just went up and grabbed the rusty metal, allowing the generator I have in the other room to unload a pent up charge into him. The loud man is yelling again, this time into something that is emitting static. Probably a radio of his very own, just one that transmits. Seems like they need an ambulance, in addition to more police.
I chuckle, reach over and turn down the radio, before turning on my stool. They all look at me from the other side of the fence, guns pointed up, barrels pointed at me.
“I would say sorry, but you are the ones who barged into my home and decided to start grabbing at my things,” I say, earning a few scowls from some of the surlier looking officers. “Perhaps the police wouldn’t have such issues if they didn’t bust into the homes of private citizens?”
“We have you on twelve counts of kidnapping and murder Isaac! You can either give yourself up now, or you can force us to come and get you. If you make us come and get you, then I can’t promise we won’t hurt you.”
“Oh, that. No, no I don’t think I’ll just be giving up so easily. So go ahead and have someone come in and disarm my lovely wall, I’m going to go and have my last glass of sherry while I can.”
“You sick bastard! Richards is dying and you’re going to go and drink some shitty wine?” The loud officer yells.
“Richards is, assuming he’s the man at your feet, just under the effects of a massive electrical shock. Barring he has any health concerns or prior conditions I should have been made aware of, I doubt he’ll die. Perhaps he’ll learn some manners though. Perhaps all of you will when you enter someone’s home again.”
I stand up as all the men begin shouting at me, flipping a few switches on a panel next to my work desk. They don’t do anything, but the police don’t know that. I calmly walk out of the room and into another section of the warehouse, an area I retrofitted into a sort of study. Pouring myself a snifter of sherry. I walk over and ease myself into a stitched leather armchair, the yellowed bone held together with twine and love keeping the chair itself intact. Leaning back, I stare at the bomb I have set in the middle of the room, roughly three hundred pounds of dynamite wired to the generator, in case the connection to the fence goes down.
I sip my sherry as I listen to the police work in the other room… they’ll be a while, I imagine. Whatever they say about me, all I can say is this.
I’m not sorry.