My hands were already shaking before I pulled the gun.
‘Large numbers. No funny business. Fifties and hundreds, c’mon. Please.’
The bank teller gave me that look, the one they always give. Am I for real? Is this really happening? Is it a joke? Am I going to die?
‘Hand over the money. Now. Please.’
My hand shook more with every passing second. I tried to be polite. Not swear or threaten death. They were only doing their job and didn’t deserve an asshole like me ruining their day. She began to bundle used notes into a bag. It was working. All going to plan.
Of course, I didn’t want the money. I mean, I’d take it. If I got away with it, it was a win-win. I wasn’t going to say no to the cash.
Lord knows I needed it. I had nothing.
But that wasn’t why I was really there. I didn’t know this at that moment, but I didn’t want to get away with the crime.
I wanted to get caught, and robbing a bank seemed the quickest and easiest way to get arrested. I’d been in and out of prison for the past seven years. A few months here and there, every time. And each time I’d leave, I found myself back out on the street with nothing. There was always a rehab centre, but it was nothing permanent.
I wasn’t made for being outside. I no longer trusted the world. It was more dangerous out here than it was inside. At least inside I knew what to expect. What the boundaries were. I knew how to exist. And each time I left, I missed it even more. It’s not easy being locked up. Not at all.
But out here, I felt exposed. Open to the elements, like a wounded animal scraping by in fear of when it was all going to end. Suddenly. The hope of bettering myself was a burden I couldn’t carry. It was too big, too much to deal with. How could I?
I didn’t deserve better. I was about three blocks from the bank when I heard the call. I complied with every command. There would be no fight from me, no guns blazing.
I wasn’t out to get myself killed. I just wanted to be safe.
© Andrew Wright 2023
(Photo courtesy of Armando Arauz)
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