Note To Self

Entry by: Alobear

10th February 2017
“Don’t come any closer! I’ll jump!”

He shuffles a tiny bit further out onto the ledge.

I raise my hands placatingly, but don’t say anything.

After a moment, he twists his head round to look at me, his expression hostile.

“What are you doing? What’s that noise?”

I’m humming, though so quietly I’m surprised he can make out the notes over the noise of the traffic below and the helicopter circling above. I don’t reply; I’m concentrating too hard on the music, making it as soothing and restful as I can. It’s not easy. My own heart is thudding painfully against my ribs, and I can feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck. But I keep the notes smooth and even, building into a simple tune that repeats over and over. My gaze is fixed on his, and I can see when the emotion in his face starts to change. First, there’s fear and anger, but gradually they give way to confusion, then yearning, and finally peace.

He shifts his weight away from the edge, turns, and steps back down onto the roof. I keep humming, to myself more than to him, maintaining eye contact as he slowly makes his way towards me. As soon as he is more than two strides away from the ledge, bodies rush past me on both sides and grab him, wrestling him to the ground and securing his hands behind his back.

I break off my song and drop to my knees, exhausted. A moment later, I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up into the relieved face of my captain.

“Good work, Officer Deacon,” he says. “Well done.”


It’s later the same day, and I’m on a very different type of call. To look at me, you wouldn’t think I’d be suited to breaking up a bar fight. I’m five feet nothing in my socks, and not much taller in my police-issue boots and peaked hat. My partner could carry me for miles without breaking a sweat - and had to, once, when a situation got so out of hand even I couldn’t diffuse it. But the despatchers know I can handle myself, so they send me wherever I’m needed.

We pull to a stop outside the bar, to the sound of shouting and shattering glass. I’m already humming as I climb out of the van. This time, I pick a martial theme, a stirring march with a swelling refrain that makes me feel powerful and strong.

Dan and I just wade on in, ducking mis-timed punches and landing blows of our own where they’ll have the most effect. The music bolsters me, sending energy into my arms and legs, helping me stand firm and swing with more weight than I possess. Every punch has an accompanying note that makes it land true. It doesn’t take long until all the combatants are incapacitated, and silence reigns once more.

I’m breathing hard, and I know I’ll have bruises tomorrow, but I feel good; exhilarated. I look up to see the bartender staring at me, wide-eyed. He looks me up and down, taking in my diminutive frame, then glances at the pile of bodies at my feet.

“How…?” he splutters.

I grin at Dan, who’s trying not to laugh.

“Protect and serve,” I announce, pompously. “All in a day’s work, sir. Glad to help.”

Dan’s giggling uncontrollably now, which makes it a bit difficult for us to get all the perpetrators out and into the van. The music’s effect has worn off by this point and I’m pretty much dead on my feet, so we make a right pair, heaving semi-conscious brutes out into the street. Once we finally get them loaded, Dan climbs into the driver’s seat, knowing I won’t be in a fit state to drive for a while.

“All in a day’s work,” he chortles. “Remy, you’re an absolute riot!”

“Riot?” I repeat, waving a dismissive hand at him. “Not today, okay? I’m not sure I could handle that right now. Tomorrow, for sure, though - bring it on!”

Our prisoners in the back have no idea what’s so funny, as we both laugh all the way to the station.