Killing the Voiceless

-Warning: There is some brief foul language/violence. If you don’t like those things, please don’t read this.

-I’m trying the narrative approach to the flashback. I think it helps with the sensory details and really get. I am very fond of it, but I know flashbacks are cautioned against, so your thoughts on this are appreciated! When I get to edit this story again, I will probably rewrite most of the dialogue this way.

The man had one piece left of the loaf of bread.  It flakey and crunchy on the outside, like a coat of dried paint, its pieces shedding when one touched it. Its white inside was fluffy and soft.

He picked up the piece of bread. It didn’t smell fresh, but when he pinched it, it bent, like a fresh-made loaf. He slid it into his mouth using his thumb and pointer finger. It touched the soft, amphibian-like inside of his cheeks. He chewed, his lips wavering up and down with his jaw. Closing his eyes, he cleared his surroundings out of his head into the dark. It disintegrated in his mouth, chew by chew, until it all went down his throat in a solid-liquid state. He opened his eyes.

The interrogator leaned back in his chair, his feet on the desk. His hands were above his head, showing his pit stains. He stared at the man, opening his mouth, but never speaking.

“I wasn’t planning on asking this just yet, but since you’ve been so good, I thought you wouldn’t mind telling me,” the interrogator said, taking his legs of the desk. He sat up. “But first I have to lock your arms again.”

The man put his arms on the table.  Four locks held his arms against the table. It was prehistoric compared to the other technology existing, but it did the job.

“I don’t know how to even ask the question. I know this is not going to be easy. But, I have faith in you.” The interrogator cracked his knuckles. He took a pen next to the stack of papers and asked, “Is it true your Senate campaign managers hired a hit man to murder Sean Jackones?”

Sweat began to form on the man’s back. His lips quivered. He crossed and uncrossed his legs until deciding on crossing his ankles. The man closed his eyes again.

It was a humid, summer afternoon in New York City. He had just finished with a campaign meeting after the election, and was walking down the street alone. He was going to fly home the next morning, so for the first time in several months—perhaps even years—he had spare time on his hands. So he decided to take a walk, and perhaps eat lunch while out.

An hour into his walk, his stomach began to growl. He was a few blocks away from Time Square, but decided to eat then. So he walked down the street until he saw a pizza pallor. He walked inside.

The male cashier leaned on the counter, checking his phone. The pallor, with white walls and floors and fifteen red booths, was empty. The radio was playing soft rock. When the man walked in, he put his phone away and asked, “Hello, how may I help you today, sir?”

“Can I have a plain slice with a medium Diet Coke, please?” the man asked.

“Sure.” The cashier walked to the display of pizzas on the front counter, which had everything from Hawaiian to pepperoni. He took a plain slice, opened the oven behind him, and put the slice in. He then grabbed a cup from above the soda dispensers, and filled it with some ice, and then Diet Coke.

“Here you go,” the cashier said, handing him the drink. “You can sit wherever you’d like.”

“Thank you,” the man said. Holding his soda, he looked around the restaurant. He walked around and sat in a booth across from the display of pizzas. He took a few sips of his soda when the cashier came with his pizza.

“The total amount is $3,” the cashier said, placing the pizza in front of him. The man took his wallet, leafing out $3. He handed it to the cashier.

“Thank you.” The cashier walked back to the front counter. The man bit into the slice. It was hot, the cheese steaming. It was thin and crispy like a cracker. The sweet sauce was only a thin layer on the pizza, the majority of it being cheese. The grease dripped down his chin. He grabbed a napkin from the dispenser next to him, wiping his face.

“Not to interrupt you, but did you run for Senate recently?” the cashier asked.

“Yes I did,” the man said with a smile. “How did you know? I’m not from New York.”

“I think I saw a clip about your campaign on The Daily Show,” the cashier said. He walked away from the pizza display.

“Ah, Jon Stewart is a funny man,” the man said, nodding. “I like how direct he is.” He held the urge to throw up in his mouth.

“He is,” the cashier said, coming closer. He sat in the booth across from the man. “I like how he doesn’t try to play games. Like mental games to make you feel a certain way. He just says how it is.”

“He sure does,” the man said, finishing the last of his pizza, leaving the crust on his plate. “It’s good to have direct people in the world.”

 “You like it when people are direct?” he asked. He leaned closer, his eyes getting larger. “I know who you are. You were my employer’s lawyer in Jackones vs. Brooklyn. It was two years ago; it was for or against whether I should've be fired for taking more sick days than my contract allowed by accident. Remember that?”

The man wiped his hands with a napkin. He gave the cashier a blank, indifferent look.

“I’m now stuck working at a shitty ass job at a pizza pallor. Do you know how much dignity you stripped from me? Huh, do you?” He got closer into the man’s face, enough for his spit to fly into his face. “You know what I’m going to do to make things better? I’m going to tell people you black-mouthed your boss and then we did so many bad things together. And guess what? The press will buy it, the press will spread it, and the people will believe it. Just wait, and then you’ll be working at a pizza pallor, wondering how the fuck you got from being a Senator to filling drinks for a random New Yorker ass.” He pushed the man against the booth and walked away, leaving the man with the chills.

The man opened his opened his eyes. The interrogator sat, cracking his knuckles, waiting for the man to answer.

“Why are you afraid? You are politically dead to everyone. You have no career,” the interrogator said, holding up the remote. His finger grazed the button.

 “Fine, fine.  He’s dead, I’m not” He shook his head. “Yes…my campaign hired a hit man group to murder the man you speak of.”

He gulped, looking at the interrogator about to press the button….