MAKE IT HURT, COWARD

The lone Oklahoma road was lit only by the moon, assuming its position for the night and allowing you the ability to drive home from work. The weight below your eyes enticed you everytime you blinked, slowly beginning to fade into a state of oblivion and daydreaming as the quiet road lulled you into the rest.

Home wasn't more than fifteen miles away, and it was already one in the morning. Next shift always fuckin' late, making you late.

A soft breeze flowed through the cracked windows of your car, some filtration just to keep you awake in these dewy spring nights. Besides the air, the sounds of the night seeped in as well, all the unthinking noises of the insects, the same song from the lone dove somewhere in the distance, it wasn't entirely awful. Closing your eyes for just a moment allowed you the clarity to see yourself in the open fields that were on either side of you. Serenity, tranquility, all qualities you longed to embrace... that if possible your fingers would tighten to claws in the cool dirt and claw until you could find the treasure that were those feelings and hoard to yourself.

Fuck.

The car veered harshly to the left as your eyes welcomed the real world once more, swerving to get back on the road and stay inside your lane. Too damn tired. A personal 'thank you' to god was murmured at the calming factor that nobody else was on the road, neither to be struck by you or to witness the embarrassment of your exhaustion taking over.

Instead, a different god seemed to hear your prayer, and interpreted it as a sign you needed to learn the law of the land.

Nearly the moment after your car jolted, siren sounds poured in like water through the windows, slowly drowning you and any hope you once had of being home soon.

Stupid fuckin'.... god damn they were fast.

Prior to this, you hadn't noticed anybody trailing behind you, much less an obvious police car. But had you noticed much of anything while you were driving? All that mattered now was coming up with an excuse. In the time it took for you to pull over and wipe the sweat from your brow, the officer had already trailed to your window, and you were left empty-headed.

Though the face was anonymous, the man was standing tall and almost leaning backward a bit, one hand on his belt and the other knocking on your window with one knuckle. The knocks were slow, taunting you to open the window and draw out the conversation.

"Wanna tell m'what happened back there?"

Just a damn constrictor. The man was on you before you could get a word out after rolling down the window.

The back of your mind was itching with recognition. You knew who this was.. if he would just bend down and show some face so you could put that voice to it.

A moment too long taken to think landed with a violent hit to the top of your car, presumably his fist.

"So-Sorry officer I- uh.. 'ts been a long work day for me. I'm just tryna get home now."

The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

What an unconvincing bullshit tale.

"I'm sure ya have been. Get outta the car."

Those words hit you abruptly, in that same accusatory tone you've heard one time before at a bar. With a deeper tone being taken at the last remark, you're almost hesitant to open the car door and see what the officer is gonna ask of you. You don't truly have a choice in the end, but the contemplation soothes your soul.

At this point, outside of the car, nature sounds quiet. A sharp contrast to before as you were flying down the road, a sudden presence looming over the environment in an oppressive manner. Even a soft breath in sounds like a bombshell being dropped.

"Not a soul 'n the road, must be'muh lucky day,"

while your body shifts up to face the cop, you witness the cigarette shifting between his lips and the smoky wall that disfigures his face in a ghostly fashion,

"yer gonna look me in the eyes real wide. Left then right. Stand fuckin' still."

What the hell was he doing? Was this a sobriety test?

"Officer, I'm not drunk. Its been a long work day and I just want–"

"Fuckin' look at me, and do the damn test."

An outburst from the commandeering voice was enough to wake you up, the air surround you suddenly feeling much more bitter. A sudden formation in the back of your throat made you stifle a choking noise as you stepped towards him and widened your eyes.

The god you desired truly was not with you, because in a moments difference the wind had shifted directions. The officers cigarette smoke was blowing directly into your enlarged eyes.

Tears prodded. Eyes squinted. Completely unsatisfactory.

Faggots always' cryin'...

"Eyes. Open."

The stinging feeling reaching your nose and eyes was unlike any before, prodding and irritating without rest.

Bargaining felt useless with how worked up the cop seemed, but if it allowed you to see and breath and go home, then you'd try once more.

"Sir, please just smell my breath and you'll realize I haven't had a drop of liquor."

To you what was formality, was to the cop resisting cooperation. Good enough excuse to pummel you.

In an instant one hand gripped the nape of your neck and faced you towards your own car. The hairs on your neck strained vibrantly as you were manhandled, though that pain simmered into something minor as your head slammed against the roof of your car.

The metal felt like it indented upon your impact, a dull ringing sensation now entering your mind along with a blur of reality now being all you could see.

The officers' hand twitched as his grasp thrusted you down sharply. No good reason for him to catch you out here besides god lending the sergeant his chance to rectify you, bestowing the power of purification through his lawly duties as if he were Jesus himself.

High-pitched white noise rattling through your skull was all you could hear for a minute, the grumbled curses from the man going over your head entirely. Unfortunately, the buzzwords that did reach your ears were that of the accusatory kind.

Sodomite

Fairy

As these words were spewed, there was a faint sound adjacent to huffing occuring in your ear. The man currently bending you over and while panting like a dog aching to fuck was accusing you of homosexuality. It wasn't necessarily uncommon for cops to experience some extent of a power trip around here, but this was beyond you. What reputation had this cop fantasized and declared reality? Who the fuck is this guy?

Alongside your racing thoughts, words flowed mindlessly off your lips. You weren't conscious of the begging that you were blindly throwing at his person until the officer leaned over your bent body to meet your tilted face.

"Yer just like all'a rest of them. Runnin' that fucking motor mouth without a breath 'nbetween."

Any questions that arose from his ominous statements were disregarded with his next declaration.

"Stop fuckin' thinkin' and shut it boy."

In any other circumstance that may'be been an awakening for you. The gruff voice and glint of the aviators displaying your fucked up reflection made certain pang deep in your stomach, but it was fleeting.

The officers hand crept up your neck leisurely, panning through every individual hair as if to savor the moment. The touch itself was gentle, in contrast to the swift grasp that bunched your hair into his fist, which was used as leverage to shove your head back down into your own car and knock you out. Limp, bloody, and pathetic, you were reminiscent of a wounded doe left in the glimmering moonlight. Wasting away in the night.

.✭.✭.

Upon awaking, your body recognized the comfort of your couch supporting your aching figure. Familiar scents edged with the smell of smoke blinded your nose as you angled yourself upwards slowly. Bruises surely bloomed over your body, the most painful in that moment being over your hips and scattered slong your wrists and arms... odd.

The vivid sounds of bones shifting against one another and almost seemingly popping into place was sickening, and you were sure it would've alarmed you more if there wasn't another cause for concern redirecting your attention.

As fingertips grazed over your face and neck, leading just to feel that you truly were awake and alive after that horrid and unfathomable night or simply dreaming, you hit a tender spot.

The slightest of pressure over the crusted area made you wince violently.

"Ah- ahhhnnggg fuck."

He would've loved to see the recognition on your face, or the pathetic mumbles you uttered from feeling the perfectly circle scab forming on your neck, thinking about how confused you must be. You could only guess what the mark was for– if it meant anything at all. Fueled by detestment, hatred, abhorrence, impulse?

Burning a cigarette on someones neck wasn't exactly a rational move from a man of the law.

It was unbearable to feel but stirred something deeply within you as fingers continued to familiarize with it. An intense heat rushed to your face, whether it was from embarrassment or enjoyment was indecipherable. People would see this. It was almost more overt than the sensual implications if a hickey, this was out in the open & easily recognizable and a permanent branding.

A light sigh slipped through your lips, wetting them as you recognized how chapped they actually were.

An empty feeling encompassed your house after a few moments. The thrill wearing off like a drug losing its kick.

The day had to begin, you had to go bandage yourself up and act like last night hadn't occurred. The unfortunate circumstances made you realize through your migraine riddled brain that you had never succeeded in seeing the officers face– if you had, it was wiped clean after kissing the car.

Whatever. Fucked up town, fucked up cops...

Mid-thought, you saw the blaring orange paper laying crumpled on your table.

"Car Tow Notice"

Flickering from a dying light above illuminates the shades of the off-duty officer. If anyone happened to be paying attention to the man, they'd assume the mundane; a white collar worker seeking a quiet drink after a long day protecting the community. It's not that the assumption is entirely innacurate, but just skewed by the front Coyle currently had on, supported by the aviators shielding what his eyes were boring into.

An elongated sip was being taken in order to finish off his second beer, foam gently coating Coyles' mustache and tickling the surrounding skin before he had raised a hand to wipe it away.

Second glass finished.

The illegitimate timer that indicated it was time to go home. A grumbled sigh fell from his mouth. It was a long enough day as is, and there was no doubt his wife would be badgering him even before he stepped through the damn door... How was your day sweetheart? What's that smell on you? Really, another drink– a rise was being dragged out of him on his own accord from even imagining the events that were bound by fate to play out.

Bitchy voice, bitchy pestering, bitchy attitude.... fuck.

Coyle couldn't catch a fucking break. Every night, every week, like a programmed radio just stuck sputtering the same damn message. Some days he swore it was just to get a rise out of him. Did the extensive hours and constant surveying not grant him ability to relax after work? Was his work protecting and serving just unskilled menial bullshit?

In all truth, home would be slightly better than the bar he was stationed within at this very moment. The faltering from the light above continuously flashing against his sunglasses was headache-inducing, the monotonous hum of a nearby radiator chewed the inside of his ear incessantly, and the fuckin' crowd was deplorable. Dust floated like snow stuck airborne, highlighted by a setting sun peering through aged windows.

Inside of the bar was irredeemable, which is maybe why you liked to hang inside here most nights. Although your back was turned to him, Coyle had observed you enough to know what that abhorrent face probably looked like right now. Those deep eyes staring at a newspaper before you, reading while sipping that fuckass concoction of soda and liquor... a real man wouldn't need that soft drink buffer.

This was his eighth week seeing you here, sitting and intensely watching. Coyle couldn't recollect just how it got to this point, but it began after you accidentally shouldered him upon entering one night, and buying the tense officer a drink in order to express your apology. The original event didn't mean jack-shit, but the more Coyle looked at you and your behaviors in the bar, the more he was thrown off in subsequent days. It would be easy to chalk it up to an active imagination, but these thoughts he was having were framing you in the same manner as his wives. You appeared ephemeral, each vision hastily proceeding like the one before.

Loitering in his mind was a crime all the same, he loathed you.

Besides, your features weren't nearly as lustrous as any of his wives. Unless he looked at your eyes from a certain angle, always seeming downturned and relaxed... a certain beautiful aura that would be easy to stare through if a man was determined enough. Your cheek bones had that same soft gleam to them that his first wife had, and that jawline could easily mimic that of his current wife as well. The frame of your body was just too slutty, those hips were in perfect position to be groped if someone were to take a chance.. And it would be a crime to not see either how flawless your skin looked either: pristine and delicate. You were just a damn prize. Sissy.

Coyles throat burned with a revolting, acidic taste. In the moments of a deep and scornful analysis on your character, bile had crept up and threatened to spoil his evening even further, lingering in the back of his throat.

Everything was going to shit 'cause of you.

Air quickly flooded his lungs as a deep breath was stolen, squinted eyes still dialed in to your leisurely movements.

There were moments where some would call his watch of you unjustifiable. Animalistic, even. Coyle followed his routine of sitting in the same spot, ordering the same drink, and preparing for when your schedule would align with his and you'd come strolling in. Clearly, people missed the point that this was ritualistic because it needed to be. Is a hunter cognizant of the prey's migration patterns because he has an obsession, or because he needs to understand the animal inside and out to execute his job successfully?

You were intruding on his life, thats what you were, a fuckin' commie intruder. Who else could infiltrate his thoughts as well as a traitor to the country– to strict American values?

In the midst of the hate-orgy occuring in the officers head, there was a fleeting side glance given to him on your behalf. A quick look around to get your eyes away from the small text of the paper.

Leland felt his heart stall, accompanied by a hand twitching against the sturdy glass of his long gone beer. Those moronically tired eyes being thrown in this direction, allowing him to catch the first and only glimpse of the front half of you tonight. What the hell would you know about what it really feels like to be tired.

Leather squeaking broke his train of thought, witnessing you beginning your departure. Laying out bills for your tab, fingers working gently as they panned through your wallet. They danced until landing on a dollar bill, delivering that from safety to the bars' countertop.

You sauntered to the exit, paper folded and held high near your armpit. It was teasing, you were a tease. Walking like a nice little lady who claims to not know the effects she has on men. A deviant, thats what you were. A deviant displaying a sense of faggotry that Coyle couldn't accurately pinpoint besides pointing to you as a whole. You needed the law, thats the only fix to your hidden shame. Hidden shame that only he could see within you.