Stand Alone

by P. D. Workman

  There was no sign of any electronic surveillance. Justine peeked in the windows. The house was empty. It was so empty and lonely, Justine’s heart immediately welled up with the desire to own it, to occupy it. To make it hers. No one else lived there, so why not? Who would claim that the house was better off sitting there empty than having her occupy it? Using her shirt as a glove to avoid getting fingerprints on anything, Justine tried each of the windows and the door. Of course, they were all shut up tight. Justine tried a few kicks under the door handle, but she wasn’t strong enough to kick it open. Looking around the yard for some sort of pry bar, Justine’s eye fell on the rocks and bricks around the fire pit. Hefting one of the bricks, Justine threw it at the lowest window as hard as she could. In her experience, glass was a lot tougher to break than it appeared. Her throw was good, and the brick landed somewhere inside of the house with a crash of shattering glass. Justine just stood there for a few minutes, listening. Had it been heard by the neighbors? No one came to investigate. Justine pulled the wheel rim over to the window and used it to help boost herself up. She brushed the glass off of the windowsill with her board and then with her shirt, hoping to avoid cutting herself climbing up. She slid her board in through the window. With a count to three, Justine grabbed the ledge, walked her feet up the wall, and then pushed up with her legs to get up to eye level, then waist, then over. She clambered over the sill, and jumped to the floor.

  Looking around, Justine brushed her hands off on her jeans to get rid of the small crumbs of glass. Some of them didn’t brush off, and she had to pull slivers of glass out of her hands. They bled in thin red trails, but weren’t serious. No stitches needed, and her tetanus shots were up-to-date. As a skater, she was well aware of when she had her last tetanus shot.

  Justine explored the little house. It was dusty and bare, but she thought it had character. There were small signs of the people who had once lived here. Little bits left here and there. Cute wallpaper in the kiddie room. A motif of white ducks in red aprons in the kitchen.

  Justine sat on the floor in the living room. She looked at the blinds covering the window, and felt irritated. Something wasn’t right. If this was her house  … She would have no blinds, just curtains. It was okay if the sun intruded on the room in the early morning. It made it more  … rustic, more homey. The rug on the floor was the wrong color, but in the dim light of the room, it didn’t matter so much. Justine tried to visualize it with furniture. The comforting drone of a TV. Somewhere to sit. A blanket spread out on the floor for the little one. It was so clear when she closed her eyes, she could almost touch it. But when she opened her eyes, the room was empty; it was wrong. She felt tantalizingly close, but frustratingly unable to reach it.

  Maybe when she was grown up, if she ever managed to make it to adulthood, she would become an interior decorator. She loved the way she felt in an empty house. She saw in her mind so clearly how it should look. She knew absolutely how to make it right. But a client would probably have his own vision, his own idea of how things should look, and it would not match the picture in Justine’s head.

  She lay down on the floor and stared up at the ceiling, streaks of orange, late-evening sunshine making long lines across the stippled ceiling. It wasn’t quite right. It should look  … How should it look? Justine closed her eyes to visualize it.

  Justine’s phone buzzed in her pocket, startling her. She knew without looking at it who it would be. Em. Demanding to know where she was and why she wasn’t home. Justine had disabled the location broadcasting on her phone. Em had bought her the phone, thinking that she’d be able to use it to track Justine’s movements. What was she, stupid? Every teenager knew that trick. Yet parents still insisted on trying. Some students left their location tracking on when they were at school or places they were supposed to be, only turning it off on rare occasions when they needed to escape, claiming GPS blind spots when questioned about it. Justine couldn’t be bothered. She just turned it off.

  After the call went to voicemail—unfortunately Justine’s voicemail box had already been filled with Em’s other messages, and Em wouldn’t be able to leave a new one—Justine swiped it on. She opened up a power draining app; a program that was handy when you wanted to condition your battery. She started a discharge cycle, and sat and watched the meter getting lower and lower until the power blacked out.

  So sorry, Em, my battery died.

  She laid back down on the floor, and closed her eyes, visualizing how she wanted the room to look. As the room darkened, she fell asleep.

  Justine had restless dreams, always reaching for what she could never grasp. She awoke a few times, growing cold and uncomfortable on the floor. But she just closed her eyes again, visualizing her house, the house as it should look in her imagination, and went back to sleep.

  She awoke with a start to the sound of the back door being opened. Justine rolled over sleepily and tried to orient herself and figure out what was going on. She was in an empty house. The room was dark, just a little light coming in through the cracks in the blinds from the street light outside. There was somebody else there. Somebody had just come into the house. Forcing herself to move, to prepare to escape or protect herself, Justine slid across the floor to the wall, staying low and in the darkest shadows. Footsteps moved through the kitchen toward her. A flashlight played along the floor, occasionally flashing off of the walls or in another direction as the burglar explored the house. Justine pressed herself into the wall, trying to avoid the flashlight. If the beam of light caught her  …

  There was the garbled murmur of a radio. Justine honed in on it, frowning to herself. A burglar with a walkie talkie? Did he have a partner outside? She had been planning on slipping out behind him, if given the chance, but maybe she should brave the front door instead. The burglar’s partner might be out the back door waiting for her. As the man came through the doorway to the living room, he was momentarily silhouetted against the kitchen window, and Justine could see him cock his head toward his shoulder as he pressed the button on his walkie-talkie and reported something back. She froze, watching him. Just what kind of prowler was this?

  He swept the flashlight around the room, and Justine’s momentary hesitation did her in.

  “Freeze right there!” the dark figure commanded.

  Justine stayed frozen. He shone the flashlight directly in her face.

  “Who are you? What are you doing in this house?” he demanded, moving toward her.

  Justine didn’t answer, squinting her eyes and trying to see him in spite of the blinding light.

  “What are you, a cop?” she questioned, just able to make out a uniform.

  He was close to her now, and he grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face the wall.

  “Hands on the wall,” he ordered, pushing Justine forward off-balance so that she was forced to catch herself with both hands on the wall. With one hand, he kept pushing the small of her back, keeping her against the wall, and with the other he checked her pockets, tossing everything in them on the floor. Then he pulled her back, pulling her arms down and behind her back and securing her with a pair of handcuffs.

  “Are you police?” Justine repeated.

  “Security,” he told her. “Police are on their way.”

  He shone the flashlight in her face again, and then as the afterimages floated in front of her, shone the flashlight over the articles that he had removed from her pockets, and around the room.

  “Outside,” he ordered.

  “But my stuff  …” Justine protested.

  “Police will take care of your stuff. Come on. Outside.”

  He pushed her toward the back door, and Justine allowed him to escort her out of the house. He took her through the back yard, through the gate, out to the front again, and had her sit on the curb.

  “Stay there and behave yourself,” he ordered.

  In the light of the street lights, she could finally see him. A private security company u
niform with the walkie talkie secured to his shoulder like a policeman. He was tall, heavyset, middle aged, white. His car was parked in front of the neighbor’s house, and another man, thin and aging with white hair, came over to confer.

  “Did you check the rest of the house?” he questioned.

  “Not yet. You stay here with her. I’ll make sure it’s all clear.” He looked at Justine. “There anyone else in there?”

  Justine shook her head.

  “No, just me.”

  Justine twisted her head to watch him head back into the back yard and out of sight. She yawned, and wiped her mouth on the shoulder of her t-shirt.

  “You do rounds every night?” she asked the older security guard.

  He nodded.

  “Yep.”

  A police car with flashing lights pulled up to them, and a young officer got out of the car and came over to them.

  “This your burglar?” he questioned unnecessarily.

  “Yep,” the older guard agreed. “She was in the house. Daniel went back in to clear it. Make sure there was no boyfriend.”

  “What were you doing in there?” the policeman questioned, turning to Justine.

  Justine gazed up at him. She always liked policemen. Even when she was in trouble for something, they made her feel safe and secure. He had a friendly face. Clean shaven, crew cut hair. Eyes that glittered in the darkness. Justine smiled at him.

  “What’s your name?” she questioned.

  “I’m Officer Carter,” he said in a restrained voice. “What is your name and what were you doing in that house?”

  “Sleeping. My name is Justine.”

  “Justine what?”

  “Justine Bywater.”

  “How old are you, Justine?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “What were you doing in the house?” he persisted.

  Justine shrugged, cocking her head at him.

  “Just sleeping,” she said, smiling winningly.

  The security guard came back out of the house and nodded at Officer Carter.

  “You want the tour?” he questioned.

  “Yeah, I’d better take a look.”

  The two men went back into the house. Justine looked at the elderly security guard again, with a sigh. It was uncomfortable sitting on the curb, her hands handcuffed behind her back. She rolled her shoulders and shifted her position, trying to get more comfortable. Her tail-bone hurt. The two men weren’t very long, then they were back out of the house again. Officer Carter put down Justine’s board and other belongings.

  “You’re not homeless,” he said to her.

  “No,” Justine agreed. “I didn’t say I was homeless.”

  “What are you doing sleeping in an empty house?”

  Justine shrugged and rolled her eyes.

  “I got too far from home, and I got turned around. I couldn’t find my way back. When I went by this house, I saw the broken window, and I went in  … I just laid down for a minute to rest  …”

  “You’re lying to me, and you’re not even doing it very well.”

  “Why would I lie to you?”

  “Did you run away? Is that it?”

  “No. I just couldn’t find my way home,” she said innocently.

  “Why wouldn’t you call for help? You’ve got a phone,” he indicated it with the toe of his shoe.

  “Battery is dead.”

  Carter picked up her phone and pressed the on button. It didn’t power up. He tossed it back down on the pile of her stuff.

  “You could have gone somewhere for help. You could have asked someone else for a phone. Gone to a store. There are lots of options.”

  “I suppose. I was just confused, you know?”

  He studied her, frowning.

  “I can’t understand why you would break into an empty house to sleep there, unless there was something wrong with you.”

  Justine felt her face flush, and hoped that he couldn’t see it in the dimness of the street. There was nothing wrong with her. It had just been an impulse. Something to do.

  “Get up,” Officer Carter told her.

  Justine got stiffly to her feet. It didn’t help that she’d been sleeping on the cold floor all night. Grasping her wrists behind her, Officer Carter felt her pockets to make sure that the security guard hadn’t missed anything.

  “You’re under arrest for breaking and entering,” he told her.

  “I didn’t break in! It was already broken. I just  … entered.”

  “It’s not your house, sweetheart. You can’t do that.”

  Justine sighed. He walked her over to his car and opened the back door.

  “Watch your head,” he advised, helping her in. Justine felt a warm flush of pleasure at his strong hands guiding her into the car. She lifted her feet in, and then he closed the door, shutting her in. She thought he would get into the car right away, but he spent more time talking to the guards, and went back into the house once more. Finally, he got into the front seat of the squad car.

  It was a long and boring wait in the police station waiting area. Justine was handcuffed to a bench, her hands in front of her this time, between her legs. It was a little more comfortable than the concrete curb, but not by much. Her butt got numb as she sat there, watching other arrestees come and go. Lots of them were drunks, of all varieties. Homeless drunks, drunks dressed up for a night on the town, loud and amusing drunks, quiet morose drunks. Some of them were sick. Some of them barely conscious. Justine had no idea that so many people in the city got potted in one night. There were a few other arrests. A girl who’d vandalized her boyfriend’s car. A break-in at a liquor store. A knife fight between a tall, ordinary-looking gentleman and a short, long-haired, wild-looking Hispanic guy who bared his teeth at the observers. In spite of all of the comings and goings, Justine was bored. She couldn’t imagine what was taking so long.

  Eventually, she saw Em come in and go up to the information desk.

  “Em! Em, over here!” Justine called.

  Em looked over at her and their eyes met. Em shook her head in disgust. Justine giggled at her expression. Em continued to talk to the officer at the information desk, and eventually Officer Carter appeared and nodded to her, motioning for her to follow him. Justine could hear his words as they approached her.

  “She was sleeping in an empty house. Owners have a nightly security check, and they spotted the broken window and checked it out.”

  “Justine,” Em said to her in frustration. “Again? Why do you do this?”

  Justine shrugged.

  “Hi, Em,” she said with a cheerful smile.

  Officer Carter looked at Em with a frown.

  “She’s done this before?” he questioned. “It wasn’t on her record.”

  Em nodded.

  “We managed to keep it off so far  … she has a  … a sort of a psychological problem. She doesn’t mean any harm. It’s just  … sort of a compulsion. Is there any way  … that we could pay for the window, and keep it off of her record?”

  “It doesn’t sound like that has worked too well in the past.”

  “She has an illness,” Em protested. “You can’t punish her for something she can’t control!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Justine interjected. “Just because I don’t want to be with you, that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me!”

  “She has a therapist,” Em told Carter, her voice rising over Justine’s. “You can call him, talk to him about it. He’ll explain it to you  …”

  “Ma’am, it’s going on her record this time,” Carter said firmly. “You can’t keep trying to protect her. Let her take the consequences for her actions, and maybe she’ll learn.”

  Em’s face reddened.

  “Please, can’t you understand that we are trying to help her? It’s not about discipline  …”

  “She’s breaking the law. She’s damaging other people’s property. My sympathy for her proble
ms ends there. Is she on medication for this ‘psychological compulsion’?”

  “Err—no. We’ve tried some medications in the past. It hasn’t worked out well. Right now we’re working on biomedical interventions —”

  “Diet?” Carter challenged. “How’s that working?”

  “Well  …” Em trailed off helplessly, looking at Justine.

  “Can we just get out of here?” Justine questioned. “I’m tired of all of the sitting around.”

  Em looked at her, then looked at Carter.

  “Did you get her papers at the front desk?” Carter questioned.

  Em nodded, displaying them.

  “That will tell you her court date. Go ahead and tell the judge that she’s mentally ill. Maybe he’ll let her off. But I wouldn’t count on it. We have laws for a reason. If she’s incapable of obeying the law, then maybe she should be in an institution where she can’t hurt anyone.”

  Justine’s jaw dropped. Put her in an institution? She had been so enamored with Officer Carter; she couldn’t believe that he would turn on her like this.

  “I don’t belong in an institution,” she told him, her voice cracking with emotion. Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “People who break into houses get locked up, one way or another,” Cart said flatly, entirely unsympathetic. “If you don’t want to be locked up, maybe you should stop breaking the law.”

  Justine stared at him, mouth open, trying to think of a response. He bent over to unlock Justine’s handcuffs.

  “I ran away,” Justine said quickly, trying to get him back on her side before it was too late. “You’re right, I ran away, and I didn’t have anywhere to go, so I just  … the window was already broken, and I was just looking for somewhere to sleep for the night. I wasn’t even going to stay there. I just wanted somewhere to sleep, where no one could hurt me any more. Don’t send me home with her, she’ll beat me!” She let her sense of panic show, fueling the story. “I ran away to get away from all that. She’ll lock me up! You told her that I should be locked up, and she’s going to chain me in the basement again! She’ll whip me, and she won’t feed me, and she’ll lock me up  …”