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honey, what have you done?
it's the sound of my gun
oh lord, honey, what have you done?
it's just the sound
Janie's got a gun
Janie's got a gun
her whole world's come undone
from lookin' straight at the sun
what did her daddy do?
what did he put you through?
they said when Janie was arrested
they found him underneath a train
but man, he had it comin'
now that Janie's got a gun
she ain't never gonna be the same
http://i17.photobucket.com/albums/b9...oll/Janie1.jpg</center>
Name: Janie Elizabeth Locke
Place of Birth: Las Vegas, Nevada
Age: 19
Race: Caucasian
Hair Color: Red-blonde
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 5'7"
Weight: 135 lbs
Identifying Marks: Ears pierced three times; various scars on arms, shoulders, and back.
Last Seen Wearing: Red dress, black leather jacket, and combat boots.
WANTED FOR
</font><ul type="square">[*]<font size="2" face="Helvetica, sans-serif, Verdana">patricide</font>[*]<font size="2" face="Helvetica, sans-serif, Verdana">assaulting a police officer</font>[*]<font size="2" face="Helvetica, sans-serif, Verdana">auto theft</font>[*]<font size="2" face="Helvetica, sans-serif, Verdana">robbery</font>[*]<font size="2" face="Helvetica, sans-serif, Verdana">evading arrest</font>[/list]<font size="2" face="Helvetica, sans-serif, Verdana">A nation-wide warrent has been issued for the capture and arrest of Janie Locke. If spotted, do not attempt to approach! Suspect is considered armed and extremely dangerous. If you have any information, please contact your local authorities, or the Nevada Police Department.
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"Lieutenant Callahan?" With a brisk, if not somewhat timid knock, Sergeant Juarez stepped into his superior's office. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but I thought you should know. She got away."
A bushy gray brow rose, steely blue eyes focusing sharply on the young man hovering in the doorway. "What did you just say to me, Sergeant?"
"I said she, ah, she ... got away. Uh. Sir."
"Jesus Christ, have we grown so incompetent? It's not like you were dealing with some ex-marine or highly trained CIA agent. She's a 19 year old girl, for fuck's sake! Tell me how this happened, Juarez, and it'd better be good."
"Well, you see," Sergeant Juarez replied slowly, lips trembling just slightly. His wife would kill him if he lost his damn job over some little white girl! "Me and Johnson, er, Johnson and I, well, we went to her house after the shooting was called in. The wife is hysterical, the neighbors are bitching about the disturbance, and then there's the girl, right? Just sitting in her backyard, calm as can be, eating a piece of apple pie. I think it was apple pie, anyway. It looked like it, but I couldn't really be sure---"
"Juarez."
"Yeah, right, sorry. Ayway, she's sitting there eating her pie, looks up, and when she sees us, she says 'finally.' Just 'finally,' that's it, like she's been expecting us to show up forever." Just now realizing he was still standing in the doorway, the Sergeant stepped further inside, shut the door, locked it, and then cleared his throat nervously before continuing. "So we walk over and tell her to stand up, that she has to come with us. She stands, and just as polite as can be asks if she can finish dessert first. I'm reaching for my handcuffs slowly, because even though she capped her Dad, she seems like a nice little girl, and Johnson tells her no, that she has to come with us now, end of story. Before he can even get another word out, she just ups and ... well, she ..."
With an irritated sigh, Lieutenant Callahan massaged his temple with two fingers. "Spit it out, kid."
"She kicked Johnson in his johnson, sir."
"Shit, he okay?" The Lieutenant asked, sympathy obvious in his voice.
"That's not the worst part, sir," Rico replied.
"There's more?"
"She, uh." Wow, was the room getting hot? Because Juarez suddenly felt like he was back in Argentina in the middle of the summer. Must've been why an endless stream of cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck. "She stole our car."
"...She stole your car." Replied blandly.
"Uh, yes, sir."
"...A 19 year old girl kicked your partner in The Jimmy, and then stole your car. And not just any car! A police car."
"Um. That's right, yeah."
"Juarez?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Get out."
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Sometimes - or, if I'm honest, all the time - I wonder why my mother married that man. I've seen pictures of her back in those days. She was so young, so beautiful, so happy. Why sign her life away so carelessly? Married at 23, beaten to a pulp by 24. Why the hell didn't she just leave? What could have possibly kept her there? You don't stay with someone who slaps you around constantly. You don't just. That's common sense, isn't it? And to make matters worse, I came along rather unexpectedly. If ever there's a reason to leave something dark and twisted and cruel behind you, it's your kid. But I guess she just didn't think that way.
Some kids whine and cry when Daddy spanks them and tells them to go to their room. I never did. I didn't even cry when he grabbed a wrench, or a knife, or a broken beer bottle. Guinness was the brand of choice - I know, because there's no other smell in the world that comes close to that shit. Occasionally at night I'll wake up with a start, just out of nowhere, and I can still smell it on my skin, even though I know it's long been washed away. Anyway, I was about five when he hit me the first time, and I think I was around 12 when he started coming into my room at night. Oh, but don't think this is some little sob story. It's not. I handled everything that happened, you bet your ass I did - I'm strong as fuck, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Nobody will ever make me a victim. It was just that I was so young when it all happened that I couldn't defend myself, and Mom was too scared to stick up for me. So I had to bide my time, wait until I got older, smarter, faster, stronger.
Nobody told me it would make so much noise. I mean, I knew the gun would be loud, obviously. The guy in the alley that sold me the gun didn't have a silencer, so I just had to suck it up and deal with nosey neighbors and cops. But I had no idea that his head would actually make that sound when the bullet hit him. Sort of like someone taking a big bowl of Jello and shaking it all up until it's nothing more than lumpy liquid. Actually, that's a really good analogy. Because afterwards the wall behind him sort of looked like that, too. This squiggly mess of cherry Jello.
Haha, whoever reads this thing will never eat Jello again. Consider that my gift to you.
Man, my thoughts are all over the place tonight. I feel really bad about kicking that cop in the nuts. And about stealing their car. But I just had to get out of there. Speaking of which, I can't believe how fucking easy it was to get across the Neveda/California border. When I got to this little no name town about 40 miles south of here, I held up a Wal-Mart. Needed some clothes, red nail polish, Blistex, some Gatorade, and a few of those little snack cake things. Oh, and peppermint Altoids. I love those things. I'll probably die sucking on about ten of them. Ditched the police car in the parking lot, by the way, and relieved some poor guy of his car. I really hate stealing from others, if you want to know the truth, but I didn't really have a choice.
I just got done painting my toenails. Always romanticized the idea of constantly walking around with toenails painted a pretty shade of red, but I never could until now. It would've been a mistake to show any sort of personality back home, to let anyone know that I had weaknesses or flaws or quirks. Best to just become a concrete wall, take every blow that was given to me, and be patient. To strike only when the moment was right.
Weird, isn't it? I'm finally free. I can finally live. But now I'm on the run, and the whole world is looking for me when before they never even knew I existed.
If you're wondering, I'm sitting at the base of the Hollywood sign, looking over the city and just absorbing. Absorbing what, I don't know, but this is the first time I've ever been able to sit and just be and I intend to enjoy it. In a few minutes I'll stand up, go to my newly acquired car, and get the hell out of dodge. I don't know where I'm going, if I'll stay in this state, or if I'll leave the whole country behind.
I don't even know why I'm writing this. I guess it's just because I want to leave something behind. I want people to know, someday, that I'm not the bad person everyone says I am. Or maybe I am, but I'm not cruel. I didn't shoot my own father for the fun of it, you know? Everyone's looking for me, calling me names, telling the world that I'm this big dangerous threat, but they don't know the real story. My mother will never tell them - she never has. And it's not like anyone would listen to me at this point.
So, to whoever finds this, I just want you to remember something. I'm not the insane trigger-happy monster the police are painting me out to be. I'm just a girl, just little Janie Locke, who had enough of living in Hell and decided to make a break for it.
You would've done the same.
