Some talk behind my back.
“He’s crazy,” they say, “reckless” or “psycho.” Those are the nice comments. In their way, they might be right, because, truth be known, I don’t care if I live or die, not that I would admit that to the precinct shrink.
Up until a month ago, I was just another cop with a gold shield, staring at twenty years and hoping for a beach to retire on. That all changed on the 6th floor of a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up.
We were serving warrants on the 4th floor when a shot went off two floors up. I took point and my partner watched my back as we climbed to investigate.
I could smell the discharge as I topped the stairs so I figured the shooter to be close. When a shadow stepped out of a door frame and leveled a Glock at me. I put four in him, center mass.
It was a kid covering for his dad with a plastic Chinese Airsoft gun.
The department cleared the shoot, but that don’t make it right. I see it every night in my dreams.
Now I just want to die on the job. I deserve it.
Is that so wrong?