The Wrong Side of the Gun

"Traffic violations. That's what she arrested me for. Traffic violations."

A loud knock at the front door snapped me out of my trance, breaking the eerie silence that had enveloped the house. I flinched, the sound slicing through my thoughts like a blade. The sudden noise jolted my senses into reluctant focus. I instantly shut the water off, my movements quick and automatic, splashing droplets across the basin as my hands fumbled for the tap.

Who the hell could that be? I wondered, a mix of confusion and apprehension tightening around my chest. My hands, still slightly damp, trembled as I dried them hastily on the nearest towel. The hallway beyond looked longer than it ever had, a tunnel stretching into uncertainty. I stepped into it numbly, my heart pounding so violently I could feel it in my throat.

Another sharp knock echoed through the house, followed by a familiar voice calling out, "Police! I'm responding to the report of a break-in."

The voice was unmistakable. Firm. Authoritative. Sarah.

The sound of her declaration sent a cold spike through my spine. Then, like dry tinder catching flame, something ignited inside me.

She’s got some nerve, I seethed inwardly. What the actual fuck is Sarah doing here!? Is she alone?

The bile of betrayal rose in my throat again, uninvited and choking. My mind spun in a thousand directions at once—questions, theories, accusations—all crashing against each other in a storm of fury and disbelief. The fog of grief that had held me in its arms was now giving way to a rising tide of indignation.

For a moment, I considered fleeing, running blindly into the street or out the back again. But there was nowhere left to run. No one left to turn to.

My knees wobbled as I stood, barely able to support the weight of my body. I felt as though I were made of paper, thin and creased. With the emotional battering of the last twenty-four hours and no rest to stitch me back together, I didn’t have the strength to stand up to Sarah—or anyone.

But Sarah was here last night, I reminded myself, the thought repeating like a broken record. The memory of her pushing Cody’s body into that dark space still throbbed in the back of my skull. Had she seen me? Did she know I was there?

My legs gave out. I collapsed heavily onto the couch, the cushions barely softening the fall. A crushing sense of defeat settled over me, blanketing my limbs, numbing my mind. I didn’t even turn towards the sound of the side fence rattling—just sat there, hollow, waiting for the inevitable.

"I'm entering the house," Sarah’s voice carried through the broken window at the other end of the house. Her words cut through the air, calm and commanding. No hesitation. She was claiming the space. Invading it.

And I just… sat.

My limbs felt miles away from me. The edges of the room blurred, the light dimming at the corners of my vision. It was as though I were watching myself from above, a ghost trapped inside her own body. I heard the creak of the floorboards, the purposeful stride of boots moving closer. Each step grew louder. Measured. Inevitable.

Then came the crescendo.

"Shit!" Sarah burst into the living room, gun drawn, poised like she expected to find a wild animal rather than a woman too tired to move. Her eyes swept the space before locking onto mine. The weapon in her hands made no effort to lower.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Gladys?" she barked, her voice a whip-crack in the cold room.

I didn’t flinch.

I didn’t reply.

Because in that moment, he spoke to me.

She doesn't deserve a reply, Cody’s voice whispered, deep and resolute, as if he were standing just over my shoulder. My breath caught. His presence felt as real as hers, perhaps more so.

I sat still. Frozen. Eyes glazed and unfocused, staring at a point just beyond Sarah’s head. Her words passed through me like wind through an open door, but Cody’s voice lingered, curling around the cracks in my mind.

And in that moment—sitting on Luke’s couch, with a gun pointed at me and a dead man’s voice whispering in my ear—I knew I had crossed a threshold. I had left something behind, though I couldn’t quite name what.

But whatever it was… I couldn’t go back.

Slowly, Sarah took several steps closer, her movements cautious yet deliberate, like someone approaching a wounded animal. The tension in the room was palpable, humming in the air like a taut wire ready to snap. "Stand with your back to me and place your hands on your head," she instructed, her voice unwavering, firm with authority. The gun, still aimed directly at my chest, stood as an unflinching barrier between us, a cruel symbol of how far things had spiralled.

Her demands hit me like a jolt—an initial surge of terror flashed through my body, hot and raw. My breath caught in my throat, and for a split second, I wondered if she might shoot me. The fear didn’t settle in my stomach. It burned through my limbs, making my hands twitch, my knees wobble. I was frozen by the surreal absurdity of it all.

But then… something shifted.

That fear didn’t have the chance to root. Anger bloomed in its place—fierce and unforgiving. It grew fast, swelling from my gut like a firestorm. How dare she? After everything I’d just been through… How fucking dare she point a gun at me like I’m the criminal here?

With slow deliberation, I turned. My gaze locked on Sarah’s as I raised my arms. My hands settled on the crown of my head with fingers interlaced, but my eyes—my eyes remained fixed on hers, blazing with all the rage, grief, and betrayal I couldn’t put into words. I wanted her to feel it. I wanted her to drown in it.

"Gladys Cramer," Sarah said, stepping in closer. Her voice had the sterile rhythm of someone reciting from a script, a performance of justice. "I'm placing you under arrest for dangerous driving and resisting arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law."

I flinched as her hand clamped down on my left arm and wrenched it down and behind my back. The sudden jerk forced a grunt from my lips, my shoulder twinging under the pressure. Cold steel closed around my wrist with a metallic finality. The click of the first cuff was sharp, biting. My right arm followed, twisted behind me with the same efficiency.

The words hung in the air between us, absurd and hollow. Dangerous driving? Resisting arrest? The charges sounded like something from another life—an almost laughable summary of the torture I had endured. No mention of Cody. No mention of the fight. The body. The blood.

Why are you here, Sarah? The unspoken question screamed through every nerve ending in my body. Why now? Why this?

Each second that passed deepened the surreal fog in my mind. Her gun was still warm in my peripheral vision. My hands throbbed from the pressure of the cuffs. My heart ached with the unacknowledged grief of what lay beneath the stairs. And Sarah—my last connection to the world I once trusted—had arrived not as a saviour, but as an executioner of the law.

It didn’t make sense. None of it did. And that was perhaps the cruelest part of all.