Page 66 of Mortala
The irony isn’t lost on me.Those flowers...they’re Sadie.For several minutes, I gawked at the delicate white lines.They're all that's left of her trying to find redemption.
Seeing her cry for help in the only way she knows how puts a knot in my throat.Iron clad boulders of emotions sat on top of my Adam’s apple, and when I tried to swallow past them—dammit.
When I go to bed tonight, I know without a doubt, her tiny flowers are all I'll see when I close my eyes.Their phantom-like petals and ghostly stems glowing in the shadows—haunting me like the rest of my failures.
Her bathroom was next on my list.Between the empty, half-full, and unopened bottles still sitting in their paper bags, Sadie has a whole pharmacy littering the counter tops.Thorazine, Mellaril, Haloperidol, Prolaxin, Midazolam—enough shit to put an elephant six feet under.I knew it was bad, but I’m an idiot for not realizing how bad.Her fight at school, and the whiplash inducing personality changes make more sense now.
Before I started searching her things, I decided she needs extra eyes on her, even if they’re not mine anymore.She’ll have her own angel in the sky.I won’t be around to sneak in and out, or hunker down with her as if we’re in a nuclear fallout, but she won’t be alone.
Parking the truck, a black-wash brick storefront greets me.It's hard to see through the windows with their gunmetal grey vinyl decals, and the heavy tint—very tactical.It’s a security nightmare.
Phony.
Humidity saturates the denim of my jeans as soon as the door swings open and my boot thuds against the running board.I can’t decide if I feel at home in the humidity, or if I hate it.At least the sunrays are trying.They’re doing their best at breaking through the cloud coverage to reach the ground.It reminds me of Oregon: mostly grey skies, a little drizzle, and gloom.
Pulling on one of the store's double glass doors, a mechanical pong alerts those inside of my entry.It's slightly cooler inside; shelves full of boxed equipment line every wall as several platforms host various electronics to be demoed.
Racks and displays hold bare minimum coverage tactical gear: balaclavas, masks, hats, apparel, a handful of different boot brands, belts, and holsters.The quality isn't terrible from where I'm standing.Might be good for a night of home burglary or a bit of hide and seek, but that's all.
In the far back sits a few computer setups with multiple monitors mounted on heavy duty support systems, exhibiting security feeds of varying resolutions.Exactly what I'm here for.
"Morning, sir, give us a minute and someone will be with you."A soft voice pulls my attention to the left.
Standing with another customer is a tall and curvy brunette in a fitted black shirt with the store's insignia plastered across the back, and your tried-and-true white Old Glory stamped over the left side of her chest.In a pair of jeans and S.W.A.T boots, she fits the aesthetic.One can only hope the employees here know what they're talking about and trying to sell.
She returns to the customer as I move deeper inside.It feels odd being here.I haven't stepped inside a place like this since my early days in the military.Once you get access to quality stuff on base you no longer need places like this.
Approaching the back, I glance over the screens they have staged.There's your typical CCTV with white and grey grainy static feeds; most of which don't have sound recording capabilities, but you didn't hear that from me.Definitely bottom price point and not worth wasting your money on.
The next step up is a colored display, but it's still unfocused.I've seen doorbell cameras with better resolution.I could have bought some of those, yeah, but they’re worthless indoors.They’ll still capture what you need, but they’d constantly blow through power supply, and your phone notifications would never shut up.Sadie moves around too much for them.
"Can I help you sir?"the woman asks from behind me, breaking my train of thought.
"Pick up order for Sullivan."
"Ahh.Yeah, we have it boxed at the front counter.Do you have your receipt and ID for verification?"
Turning, I nod in the direction of the desk.She dutifully turns and heads that way as I follow.
"Yes."
Short and simple.
From my pocket, I gather my wallet and phone right as we reach the checkout.The counter's painted black with military and police stickers plastered all over the front.
Reminds me of a few police departments I’ve walked through, with walls presenting department patches from all over the country—their way of showing support for another.Much like this desk.
Pulling out my government ID, I push it across the glass counter top separating civilians from cheap body cameras and communication equipment.They’re not military grade, but they’ll work in a pinch.
Taking my ID, she waits for me to provide my receipt before handing it back.Her seasoned fingers input my ID number she must have memorized with muted bomb-like strikes of the keyboard.I sit tight as she grabs a laser scanner and scans a barcode.It beeps loud enough to disrupt music I’ve not noticed until now.When she’s all done, she passes my package to me.
"Thank you for your business, Mr.Sullivan.Is there anything else I can help you with?"
Unless you have a cure-all for mental illness, no.
"No."
Taking my set up, I'm out the door.
