Temporize

• Sonal Kamble, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2019

It’s some sort of patriotic holiday.

Fireworks escape the rooftop of a nightclub on 5th avenue, but they’re muted by the ring of gunshots nearby. Smoke from Buffalo’s Tesla factory unfurls into the star-less sky and red gunpowder bleeds into the clouds. Eighty-nine years after conception and there are still no flying cars. The NYPD wouldn't be able to afford them, and then car chases with drug lords would just get ridiculously more pathetic. The neon stars of Times Square promise more than what the empty shell of a city can give.

I stand on the ledge of a rooftop and breathe in the dust.

The corpse of New York City is alive beneath me.

Carmen wraps a black scarf around the bottom half of her face. Cloaked in darkness, her obsidian eyes melt into the night. “Bite,” She holds up a roll of black tape, and I comply. She begins wrapping her hands. I jerk my head to the side and the tape rips. She secures the jagged tail to her wrist.

Silence reveals my heavy breathing to the night making me embarrassed by my nerves.

I’m not sure why I’m even doing this. Carmen’s target—our target—is a crumbling concrete building on Wall St. Other than a lone security guard, the NY Stock Exchange is deserted now; after the 2057 riots it's almost deserted all the time. I’m sure there isn’t even any money in there, but Carmen’s dead set.

She tugs my wrist, and now we’re hurrying off the rooftop and across the street. We hunch behind a brick wall and Carmen presses her cheek against it, like she’s listening. The city lights drown in her eyes, red wading in obsidian waters. She smirks. “Ready when you are.”

My hands clumsily reach for the gun at my belt. Glass will soften the impact but at those speeds—I keep imagining the security guard’s brain matter splattered across the marble.

Carmen catches my trembling fingers, and scoffs. I swallow thickly. “I’ve never fired a gun before.”

I keep my head down as her dark eyes burn into my skull. She releases an angry breath. “You’re useless,” She mutters. Shame rises in my throat as she moves to rip the gun from my sweaty fingers.

“Never mind,” I say. “I can do it.”

She gives me a quizzical look, but backs away. My hands shake as I aim at a dusty window. I can do this. My shoulders roll back to brace for the bite of the recoil.

As the countdown begins in my head, I remember the advice Carmen gave to me about surviving in the city. She said hesitance kept people from doing what they had to; that hesitance was the ultimate weakness in this concrete purgatory. And if we’re already in hell, whose judgement do we fear?

Three.

My finger curls around the trigger.

Two.

Air rushes into my lungs.

One.

I turn around and walk away.