\chapter{A Red Sky at Night} \by{HastyDeparture} The sun slowly sinks in the sky, an orange halo telling of the the morrow's forecast. The forecast is always the same. The forecast never changes, not for me, at least. Every day, I rise with the sun, and step out the door of my small ranch-style home as the sun clears the trees of my small suburban neighborhood. Every day, I grab a large, black coffee and the morning paper from the gas station on the corner. Every day, I park my black and white in the side lot of Lakeview Central High School. Every day, I sit down at my desk as Connie waltzes in the door, says, ``morning, Officer Bavarious'', and moseys on over to the copy machine. My name is Luke Bavarious, and I am a School Resource Officer. I'm a cop in a high school. I wear a badge, I carry a Beretta, and I don't take shit from anyone, especially not people half my size. They said that the regular doughnut-munchers weren't close enough to the people, not tied-in with the community, and unfamiliar with the hooligans in our fair town. They said that we needed someone to fill that role, to keep tabs on the kids, to keep our children in school and out of trouble. That's where I come in. I deal with the kids who have a streak, and who, without help, are likely to become the next generation of scum that plagues our streets. I keep the peace; I enforce the law. I know all the bad seeds, the troubled families, the broken homes. I get to know them, I lend them a hand, and I set them straight. I know them all like family. So when a young voice says ``hey, Officer B'' as I'm looking out the window at the setting sun, it's no surprise that I know who it is before I turn to face the teenage boy in a hoodie and baggy jeans. ``Hello, Marcus. How was your day today? You go to class?'' ``Of course, Officer B. You know me.'' ``I know I know you. That's why I'm asking. You go to every one?'' ``Yes, Officer.'' Marcus was a good kid with a bad streak. I've known him since he moved here his freshman year of high school. He moved out of a trailer park with his mom and younger sister to avoid their drunken, estranged husband. A rough upbringing; not uncommon. He's got a record like many of the others I've helped, ranging from little things like skipped classes and tardiness to a few more serious infractions involving alchohol and marijuana. The same old, tired shit. But he's been getting better. ``That's good, kiddo. That's good. You heading home? You know nobody's supposed to be in the school this late. You gotta study for those tests next week.'' ``Well, you see{\ldots} I was wondering if you could, uh{\ldots} come look at something.'' ``What is it? You getting into trouble again?'' ``I don't know, Officer B. That's what I want to you come see.'' I look back out at the flaming ball in the sky, and remember that even though my day is coming to a close, my job never ends. ``OK, Marcus. Show me.'' He nods solemnly. We walk out the door of my office. In silence, he leads me down the hall to the right, and up the stairs to the second floor. We make a left, and start down the next hallway. Marcus jogs ahead, and stops when he gets to the boys' bathroom halfway down on the left. ``In here,'' he mumbles, almost inaudibly. He goes in. I step up to the door, held open from the inside by a beat-up garbage can. It's almost pitch black inside; the lights are out. ``Marcus?'' No answer. ``Marcus? You in here?'' A chill creeps up my spine, an unwelcome feeling that's all too familiar for someone in my line of work. I step into the shadows, and undo the strap on my holster. I hope I'm just being paranoid, just feeling a little scared, but I know it's not true. The door suddenly swings shut with a slam, and the world as I know it is plunged into darkness. In an instant, I'm gripping the Beretta tight in my sweaty hands; exactly the last thing I want to have to do. ``What's going on, Marcus?'' I call out. The void answers, ``What's going on, Marcus?'' It sounds just like my voice; an echo. A soft sound appends the response; a shoe scraping the floor in the dark. My eyes slowly adjust to the dark, and I notice a small window on the far wall, just below the ceiling. The faint light coming through reflects off something to my right - mirrors above the dirty sinks. Another noise; my eyes dart back to the left. I should have seen it coming, but it's too late; I feel the breath in my lungs explode. I'm slammed into the nearest mirror. The glass cracks, and so does my skull. I push away from the wall, repulsing the weight of two, maybe three kids. I should have known. The weight shifts, and my body hits the opposite wall and the urinals. The nasty water splashes across my hands and stomach. Disgusting. I turn away from the wall, to face the kids. Disgusting. The weight hits my stomach, shots ring out in the darkness, and my breath bursts forth like doves from a magician's hat. I'm no magician. I drop to one knee, my head turns toward the mirrors above the brown stained sinks, and in an instant, I see all those young faces I've helped staring back at me, their faces blank, emotionless. I collapse on the floor. As I lay on the cold, damp tile, I can see out the window. The sun slowly dips below the horizon, painting luscious red streaks across the sky. Red streaks the color of blood. Red streaks like the ones painted across the walls of the boys' bathroom on the second floor. e: As I wrote it, the story drifted away from the theme, but that's what happens. I'm sticking to it.