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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Mystery
- Subject: Pain / Problems / Adversity
- Published: 10/10/2012
The Most Common Crime
Born 1991, F, from Missouri, United StatesTHE MOST COMMON CRIME
By Laila Amira
Posted by Taylor Nicole
"He was both guilty of and victim to one of the most common crimes in the human race." This story is inspired by the above quote from Elie Wiesel.
As he cradled his coffee cup in one hand, Ryan gazed out the living room window. There was nothing surprising; the same children in their front yards and dogs sniffing on the sidewalk that he always saw.
He watched a slightly overweight yellow Lab trotting determinedly down the sidewalk, futilely chasing a small lizard that stayed just out of the dog's reach.
Across the street, the five-year-old girl who lived in the white ranch-style house sat on the driveway with a bucket of chalk. Her name was Lulu, Lila, Lily, something like that. Ryan didn't really have any interest in making friends with the people around them. They all had their own lives, jobs, and things to focus on; there was no point in meddling in others' business.
The girl sat with her legs spread in a V, corralling the pieces of chalk that she had dumped from the bucket, and was intently focused on the picture that she was creating within the frame of her spread legs. Her simple purple flip-flops dangled from her toes as she swung her feet from side to side.
Ryan watched her for a few moments. He had to admit the kid was cute, but she could certainly be loud as well. How many times had he tried to sleep in on a Saturday morning, only to be interrupted by the noisy antics of the girl and her little brother in their front yard? What was it with kids and their insistence on waking up ungodly early? Didn't they know that weekends were for sleeping, enjoying the freedom of days unhindered by alarm clocks and schedules for school and work? Her parents certainly weren't the best at teaching their kid to be mindful of other people. Didn't they care about people who labored all week and wanted at least one morning of luxurious uninterrupted sleep?
Suddenly, Ryan noticed a large, shiny black SUV driving down the street. He didn't remember seeing it before, and wondered which of the neighbors had gotten a new car. Probably the family a few doors down (what was their name again? Jensen? Jennings?). They got a new vehicle almost every year. It was decidedly different than their usual choices, but he figured that people were entitled to a bit of variety and excitement now and then.
The SUV moved slowly along, maneuvering around an older sedan parked under a tree.
It rolled to a stop just before the driveway where the little girl sat, still engrossed in her drawing. The man who climbed out of the driver's seat was nicely dressed in a neat button-down shirt and slacks; the large sunglasses perched on his head didn't quite fit with the rest of the image, but Ryan supposed that people were entitled to their own clothing choices.
He idly sipped his coffee, and watched as the man glanced over his shoulder for a moment before walking up the driveway towards Lily.
She glanced up as he approached. He angled his head to study her chalk drawing, and said something that made her smile.
Ryan took another sip of his coffee.
Lily went back to her art work, stealing quick glances at the man out of the corner of her eye as she worked. He just stood there, watching.
Suddenly, the man said something else that caught her attention. She lifted her head again, her expression wavering between a smile and confusion. The man reached into his pocket and held something out, apparently encouraging her to come closer.
As soon as Lily stepped close enough to see whatever it was that the man had, his other hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. In one movement, he swung her around and pulled her against him, clamping a large hand over her mouth. Her legs began to kick and flail in the air as he grabbed her around the waist and lifted her off of the ground.
Lily managed to get one arm free, and it flailed along with her wildly kicking legs. The man kept moving down the driveway, unfazed by her desperate but futile efforts.
Now he was standing alongside the car, and the back door was open.
The door to the house burst open, and the mother's piercing scream could be heard even through Ryan's closed windows.
He felt as though he should be doing something other than standing there... But what could he do? Go storming across the street waving a baseball bat from the garage? Hardly. And by the time he reached the phone in the kitchen, the man would be gone.
Don't try to be a hero; that was what people always said. If it's something really bad, you'll just end up getting hurt too. Don't get involved.
The mother's cup flew from her hand, spilling orange juice or coffee or something in her wake, as she rushed across the front yard towards the car. He face was wild, angry, and frantic, her mouth open in a scream.
The man flung Lily into the backseat—quite hard, Ryan noted with a wince—and hurried around to the driver's door, glancing over his shoulder at the frantic mother hurrying towards him.
The car peeled off down the street with a screech of tires, the mother chasing after it and screaming as she pounded on the window with her fist. As the vehicle accelerated and zoomed away with another screech of rubber on concrete, she tripped over a manhole cover and lost her balance. She landed in a crumpled heap on the pavement, still screaming.
Ryan watched it all in stunned silence. What had he just seen?
The mother remained where she had fallen, hunched over and sobbing. Tears flowed freely from her eyes, and her hands were bloody from the forceful contact with the windshield and pavement.
Up and down the street, front doors opened as neighbors, alerted by the noise, stepped out to see what had happened.
A small, lonely purple flip-flop lay in the middle of the street.
-One Month Later-
As Ryan approached his car in the parking lot, the cool fall breeze rustled his jacket, and his thoughts shifted from his work day to the hot dinner waiting for him at home. It was late, it had been a long day, and he was ready to go home.
Across the street, a flier duct-taped to the lamppost fluttered slightly in the breeze. The sign displayed a photo of a smiling Lily beneath the word "MISSING" in large letters. The family had organized search parties, put up fliers, created a website—the works. Still, there had been no success in the case. Their little girl still hadn't come home.
Ryan's wife had made a meal for the family one night, saying that it was the least they could do. He supposed she was right. During the early days of the search, he had taken an afternoon off from work to try to help somehow.
The police had found the car abandoned several miles away, and her other flip-flop, dress, and underwear discarded in a Dumpster near it.
Everyone knew what that probably meant, but some of them still held on to tiny shreds of hope.
It was hard, no, impossible to fathom what made people want to do the things they did these days. Ryan supposed that that was how it would always be. There didn't seem to be much that could be done about it, after all. Despite all the talk of "zero tolerance policies" and neighborhood watch groups and increased police presence and all that, there was still crime, wasn't there? The jails and prisons were still full of criminals, weren't they? There would always be "bad seeds" in society, and they would do what they wanted.
As Ryan reached into his pocket for his car keys, he suddenly heard a sound behind him.
Before he had the chance to turn around, a cold and dangerous-feeling piece of metal was jabbed roughly into the back of his neck. "Don't move," a rough voice snapped.
Instinctively, he put up his hands. "I don't have much on me. My wallet is in my left back pocket if you..."
"Shut up. I can figure it out; you don't make a sound." The harsh voice and hot breath were laced with the odors of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and something else that Ryan couldn't identify. Fully aware of the gun barrel that had now shifted downward to press into his back, he obeyed and did not move or speak. He felt a hand sweep across his back as the man patted his pockets. His jacket was lifted and his wallet hastily yanked from the back pocket of his jeans.
The clasp snapped open, and he heard the man rifling through the wallet's contents. A curse, then, "This all you got?"
"I told you I didn't have much."
"How about that watch?" Ryan glanced at his watch, then slowly slid it off of his wrist and held it behind him. Immediately, it was snatched painfully from his fingers.
He wondered if anyone could see what was going on. Surely they would call the police.
"Those some nice sunglasses you got in your pocket, too. Let me see those, too," the man demanded. As he extracted them from his front jacket pocket, Ryan glanced over his shoulder just a little, trying to get a look at the man's face so he could pass the information along to the police when this was over.
The man must have seen the movement. "You lookin' at me?" he snapped. "I told you not to move!"
Ryan wanted to curse.
"You keep your eyes where they belong, facing forward, understand?" The man jammed the gun more firmly into his back for emphasis. "I told you not to move. You think you're smart, think it's a good idea to take a little peek at me?" He cursed again. "Get down."
Apparently, Ryan hadn't moved quickly enough to appease the man. The butt of the gun slammed into the back of his head, sending pain shooting through his skull and making his legs buckle beneath him. He fell to his knees on the pavement with a grunt.
The man followed that with a kick to the ribs, and the air rushed from Ryan's lungs with a harsh whoosh.
As he tried to see through the white starbursts and black spots arcing across his field of vision, another lightning bolt of pain exploded through his skull. "You got a problem with orders, man?" This time, the gun butt slammed into his forehead and nose.
Blood streamed down his face and into his mouth, garbling his words. "Please, just take the money and leave. Please."
In reply, the man pistol-whipped him across the face a second time. More starbursts of white light filled Ryan's field of vision, and he grunted in pain.
Had anybody called the police yet? Surely there was SOMEONE around who could see what was happening here! For God's sake, didn't anybody care?
Suddenly, Ryan felt the cold touch of metal against his temple and heard the sharp click of a pistol's hammer being cocked. "Oh, God! Please, no!"
There was a tremendous clap of thunder, an explosion of searing, fiery pain, and then the world went dark.
The police officers who arrived on the scene found a man's dead body lying alongside his car, blood trickling from the single gunshot wound to his temple, and a crimson stream dripping into the storm drain. His personal belongings were gone; stolen, no doubt. And his face—the grisly bit of it that was left, anyway—was frozen in an expression of horror.
By his outstretched fingers, they found a one-word message that he had traced in blood. Three letters: WHY?
Ryan was both guilty of and victim to his own crime. Lily was a victim as well. They were both victims of one of the most common crimes in the human race.
The crime is not robbery, rape, or murder.
The crime is indifference.
"Whenever and wherever human beings are suffering, we must always take sides. I swore to never be silent. NEUTRALITY is a help for the oppressor, never for the victim, and SILENCE is an encouragement only for the tormentor, never the tormented." -Elie Wiesel
/end/
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