You take out your phone and dial 911. An operator picks up.
“Hello, what’s your emergency?
“Hi, umm there’s been a uhh murder…or at least we think there has. I – someone’s been stabbed, a girl. She’s bleedy – bleeding! She’s bleeding.” You’re fumbling over your words. To be be honest, you’re not really sure what the emergency is. Well, you know there’s a girl and she’s been stabbed, but how do you communicate the full extent of the situation to this operator. There should be some sort of code you can give in these scenarios. Like a 405 or something easy and succinct like that. Instead, you’re just blabbering to the operator. You hadn’t prepared what you were going to say before you called.
“Bobby dead – maybe…upstairs down the hall…uhh something about an emoji face.” Oh no, you start to think to yourself that you sound guilty. Stop sounding so guilty.
“Please, slow down. What is your address?” says the operator.
“13 Vincent Lane, in the upstairs.”
“Oh, the DK house?” Why the “oh”? Do they think this is prank call?
“Yeah…I mean yes! Yeah the DK house.”
“We’re are send a unit there now.”
“Ok, great thanks. Have a good night.”
“Please stay on th-” but you’ve already hung up. Shit, you can’t call back now. You don’t want to. You’re relieved the call is over. Why was that so stressful for you?
“Nice,” chirps one of your friends. Screw them, why hadn’t the girl run to them? Why’d she have to choose you? You aren’t cut out for this kind of pressure. Doesn’t matter now, the call has been made and the police are on their way. For now, you decide to wait it out with your friends and the bloody girl. There’s safety in numbers.
Five minutes pass. There’s commotion downstairs, a spontaneous clamor.
“COPS!!!” yells someone from below. “Hide the drugs!” yells another. “Just plain hide!” yells yet another. The stairs begin to rumble. A hoard of students are running up the stairs. They run right past you, your friends and the bloody girl still sobbing on the floor and scatter into each and every room on the floor. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck. This isn’t good. You did not think this one through. You’ve just called the cops to a house full of shitfaced, mostly underage, kids. In doing so, you’ve likely, albeit inadvertently, sent a few to their death in one of these rooms.
This is all too much. You can’t help these kids, you never could. The bloody girl chose the wrong person. All you can do know is save yourself. You go downstairs, leaving your friends behind, where you are greeted by a few cops and several kids being held in custody. The cops briefly question you, but let you go once you tell them you are an alum. It’s a full-blown blizzard outside now. The wind is howling and the snow is swirling in every direction except down. The ground isn’t blanketed yet, but it will be soon. You want to go back into the house, but you can’t go back in there now – there’s no way. Your only real option is to head back to your room so that’s what you do. It’s a good thing you chose your winter jacket.
So, congrats. You survived the night, but now carry around an unshakable burden of guilt. You wake up to hear that more than a dozen students were killed at DK last night and those that weren’t were arrested for underage drinking and, or, drug possession. Way to go. That’s what you get for calling the cops. Fucking narc.