Self-portrait

Monte Spillane // senior digital graphic s I drive on I-85, the sound of the sirens and the blinding brightness of the blue and red lights near me. The patrol car and my 2023 Civic Sedan are so close together, you would think they were lovers.

“Please pull over,” the Patrol Officer announces in the vehicle.

My thoughts are scrambled as I attempt to get a grip on what the situation truly is. Why am I getting pulled over? What’s going to happen to me? I peer into my rearview mirror as I look into the patrol car. Two officers. One looks to be a young Hispanic woman, and the other appears to be an older white man. This could scare anyone like me, a young Black woman in 2023.

I pull over and see the older white man step out of his vehicle. My heart is bursting through my chest as he walks up to my car. He taps on the window three times and I let it down.

“License and registration.”

I examine his badge number and his clothing. 262. All navy blue uniform, with a gold belt. My heart starts to beat faster, until it’s all I can hear.

“License and registration!” 262 says, louder this time.

I snap back to reality and reach for my wallet in my hoodie pocket. My hands sweat profusely as I try to grab it without it looking like I’m reaching for a weapon.

After what feels like decades, I finally get my wallet out, grab my license, and hand it to 262. He takes a brief glance at it, then walks back to his patrol car. When he gets far enough, I finally breathe. That wouldn’t last long, because I see him walking back up to the car. pen

Kenedi Hooks // rising freshman short story

“Step out of the vehicle, ma’am,” 262 says in a stern voice.

Now I’m really panicking. Did he find something on my record? No, of course not. I’ve never committed any crime or anything of that nature. Did he think my license was fake? I’m sure it’s not; I went to an actual DMV.

“Why? I haven’t done anything wrong!” I blurt out, without thinking.

“Ma’am, step out of the vehicle now!” 262 shouts. I grab the door handle and open it. I put my hands up to show the officer I don’t mean any harm. The officer pulls his gun from his side, making sure I don’t have any chance of doing anything. He pins me up against my Honda.

“Don’t move,” he orders.

He gets in the car and starts talking to who I assume is his partner. As he talks, I think about my partner at home, who is awaiting my arrival. I need to call him and tell him what’s going on. I know the cop said don’t move, but it’s not like I’m under arrest. I walk back up to my car and reach into it to grab my phone when suddenly I hear a loud bang and a burning sensation in my back. I grab my stomach, but when I look back at my hands, they’re covered in a familiar red substance. I fall on my knees as 262 and his partner run over to me.

“Shots fired! I repeat, shots fired,” shouts 262. My throat closes as I try to breathe. I’m falling in and out of consciousness. I’m struggling to breathe. The metallic smell is getting stronger and stronger. I don’t know how much longer I have. Someone help me.

acrylic

Antonio Starks // senior