Buzz

This is my first story, please tell me all the issues with the story so I can get better at writing - Frankie

Solomon Brazier was a young adult, a seventeen year old high school dropout with a drug problem and a criminal record, a list of crimes that were nothing like the one he just committed. He had broken into houses before sure, robbed stores, but that was nothing like what he had just done. That was what was going through his head as he stared at the body collapsed on the floor, blood slowly leaking from the wound on the woman's head and forming a puddle on the floor. As he stared at the woman she kept pleading, only one of her hands raised as an attempt to stop him in case he swung again, the other trying to stop the flow of the blood. After a minute or two of them staying like that, it finally occurred to him that if she told the police, he was going to go to jail, not the usual waiting in a holding cell until his friends bailed him out, a federal prison, the kind you see in prison movies where everyone has a shank and shower rape is a past-time. If that happened, he was doomed, he couldn't go to prison, he'd be dead meat. But if she told the cops, he was fucked. That meant he couldn't let her tell, the cops, even if it meant.. Well, he didn't like to think of the word. But he was desperate, and he needed her money for his next hit. He had to do it, survival of the fittest, as much as he hated it, so he raised the bat again.

That was a week and three days ago, he counted, and he still was thinking about the image of that woman with her skull caved in, blood splattered all over his clothes and his old baseball bat hanging limply from his left hand. So far no cops had showed up to ask him any questions, but lately that had been the least of his problems, he hadn't even been worried about getting a fix lately. Now, it was the buzzing. It started the morning after the incident, when his main problem was the chance of a cop finding evidence that he was the one who killed the woman in the high end house, grabbing anything worth stealing and running immediately after.
The next morning, the first thing he heard as he opened his eyes to glance around his rundown apartment was a loud buzz, like the sound of a smart phone on vibrate, except this was like it was inside his head, immediately making him cringe. After that, he kept hearing it every so often, slowly getting more and more unnerving, making him unable to sleep and constantly keeping him on edge.

Now, he was curled up on his bed, gripping his hair tightly, a few blonde strands falling onto his sheets as tears fell from his face. This was all because the noise had been getting louder, more frequent, and longer, and now, it wasn't stopping. It had hit him like a strike of lightning, one moment he was sitting on the edge of his bed, reading a magazine he had shoplifted from the convenience store on the corner and the next he was where he was now, pulling his hair out and biting his lower lip. He waited for more than an hour for the pain to stop before it became too much, and he stood up, stumbling over to the door. He ripped it open and lurched out, making his way over to the stairs and pulling himself to the next story using the handrail.

It took him about ten minutes to get to the roof, no one in the building awake to stop him, seeing how it was around two in the morning. He stepped out into the cool air on the roof, bracing himself on the door frame for a moment before continuing, making his way over to the edge of the roof and looking over the railing, the street dark and deserted, a common sight in the shit neighborhood where he had the apartment he called his home. He climbed over the railing, planting his feet on the edge, his bare feet slightly poking over the ledge as he held on to the freezing cold railing, the buzz now just white noise, kind of like the sound of a storm. He held his breath for a moment, then let go, gravity taking over as he fell forward, his arms spread wide and his hair blowing past his face.

The next morning, there were cop cars and ambulances surrounding his body, a cop crouched over the young man with wide, open eyes, blonde hair with a few streaks of blood, still wet, and dirty sweatpants, needle marks all over his arms. The cop sighed, standing up and walking away, not even noticing the faint buzz in the back of his head.