Bowerman's Misfortunes Man-Personal Narrative

Misfortunes Man
It was just his luck to have spent 30 years on the force and just now have a “situation” like this right before he retired. It’s impossible to count how many times she wished him good luck as he rushed out of the door, pushing a grin onto his face as he thought of his late peaceful days before he left. “Just like him to go and fine trouble”, she would have said, when really, he wanted to avoid it just as much as she wanted him to.
Lieutenant Bowerman turned the corner, his lungs numbing as the cold air inflated them, and he broke into a sprint. He passed La Salle Bank, the frosty golden doors shining bright from the reflection of a corner street lamp. He’d remembered passing through those same doors during his last visit to Minneapolis for a conference on gun safety.
“God that was awhile ago”, Bowerman thought to himself, such a calm, reminiscent thought for a time like this.
The crunching of his feet as they threw snow up in all directions echoed in the alley as Bowerman tried to calculate how far they’d ran. No matter how bad his luck was, he was now being chased by this faceless man, and had to do something quick. He was so close that Bowerman could almost make out the mud streaked Adidas high tops, concealed by loose black sweatpants.
He stumbled across the man by chance, noticing the open front door of the big Victorian down the street, his instincts urging him to check it out.
The silhouette grew closer as the lieutenants’ eyes darted around, searching for the closest corner to turn on. He took the turn tight, catching himself before he ran through a barbwire fence.
“Finally man, I thought you were going to run forever!” he spoke with a tone of slight sarcasm, knowing that he decided what happened from now on. The man caught his breath, letting his hoodie fall back enough to make out the expressions on his face. It was the sight of a man who had sold his soul to the
devil.
The man had starched portions of his face to the bone, leaving deep scars Bowerman knew all too well from the meth addicts at the downtown clinic. Lieutenant Bowermans’ experience caused a slight tightening of his throat as his breathing was stifled by the fear of his realization. He’d heard this story so many times around the office and in the reports he read he could practically finish it himself. Cop gets a little to suspicious and winds up bleeding out in an alley a few blocks away, bleeding out from multiple stab wounds. His sharp focus, which he’d grown so accustomed, had become clouded by his advanced age, impeding him as he had tried to draw his pistol back at the house.
“Getting a little nosy are we now? Why’d you interrupt my visit back there?” The man taunted him with the short blade he had drawn, motioning the stab wound he would very possible inflict. Bowerman began to question the length of the blade, considering his chances if he was to receive a few blows from it.
“I promise that you do not want to make this mistake. Check my pocket”, Bowerman said in defense, offering the insides of his pockets, “You see?”
“Ha-ha! I hope you don’t think this scares me”, the man threw the badge far down the alley, immediately lost in the blanket of fluffy snow. Lieutenant Bowerman stared back at the man, suddenly nauseous and dizzy, perhaps from realization. He though back of his wife’s face this past morning, of what she had reminded him to do on his way home from work. He was caught in a translucent daze, suddenly unaware of the danger of the situation. He was light and numb, almost separate from his human body in clam thought as the man threw him up against the fence and the barbed wire tore through his leather jacket. He struggled to make out the words of the man as he looked up at him, now laying on the ground, in submission. Looking perplexed by Bowerman’s silence, the man took one last glance at him and decided it was time to leave, dashing around the corner of the alley.
Lieutenant Bowerman stood, giddy in his daze and overcome with the idea of safety.
“So this is the shock that Ronnie talked about”, thinking to himself as he pushed to prop himself up against the brick wall. Bowerman accepted that he seemed far too complaisant for someone who’d just been mugged, catching a bright hue out of the corner of his eye as he pushed himself into a standing position. A spot of blood dripping off of his hand, crashing into the snow then quickly multiplying, climbing across the frosty surface. He wiped his hand across his chest, barely startled when it returned in a blanket of red. He calmly sank back into the snow, finding a burrow for himself while he waited for the end.
His wife received the call 3 hours later, knocking her off her feet in her kitchen and leaving her in a weeping heap on the tile. One day from retirement, Lieutenant Bowerman was stabbed to death in alley after following up the search of a vacant house with an open front door one block from his house.