Prompt 8: Everyone Dies

The gunshot echoed through the room, seeming to bounce off of the damp grey stone walls surrounding the two men.

The shorter of the two wore a dark blue coat, specks of tan dust settling along the velvet-like fabric, creating a dull night sky sprinkled with far-away stars. His light brown hair was slicked back, except for a single strand that had escaped the mold, falling into the man’s sweat-coated forehead. A small smile slipped onto his lips, almost reaching his dull brown eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

The second man stared back, blue eyes catching the shadows of the room as the dim light flickered slightly. Dark curls framed his face, sticking up whichever way the strand of hair chose. He tilted his head to the left slightly, eyebrows narrowing as his eyes traveled from the short man’s face, watching the smile slowly fall away, down his outstretched arms, straining with effort, over the gun, clenched in his clammy hands. 

The tall man then looked down at his white buttoned down shirt, the cuffs rolled back to his elbows, to see red, appearing almost black in the poorly lit room. It began only as a dot, quickly growing, destroying the clean white to a sick red.

The short man slowly lowered the gun, his white-knuckled hands shaking slightly. He watched as the other man pointed a finger at him, lips moving trying to make a sound.

“You,” he breathed, eyes widening. “You shot me.”

The shot man’s legs folded underneath him, his tall frame falling to the cold floor, a crumpled heap. He laid on his back, staring up at the grey stone ceiling, his right hand resting just below the bullet hole. The room was filled with short gasps as the man tried to catch his breath.

The shooter slowly walked over to the downed man, looking down at his shaking body. The short man towered over, his face void of expression as he slowly slipped the gun into his coat pocket.

“What is happening? I can’t breathe,” the tall man spluttered, red drops falling on his lips. He tried sitting up, propping his upper body on his left elbow and forearm. A small smile crept back onto the standing man’s face, shadows pooling below his eyes and under his bottom lip.

“You’re on the verge of death!” he replied, squatting down, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped under his chin. The tall man looked down at his chest, pulling away his right hand, blood making it shine in the dim light.

“But I don’t understand. What is ‘death’?” he asked, staring at the bullet hole in his now red fronted shirt, his right arm now helping support his upper body. The short man furrowed his eyebrows, confusion etched into every crevice of his face.

“What?” his voice seemed to bounce off of the walls, cutting through the nearly silent room. The dying man looked up at him, eyes still bright with the question, not dulled by the loss of blood.

“What is death?” he repeated, his voice steady, leaving his lips smoothly, dancing around the basement. The shooter pressed his lips together in a thin line, a bead of sweat trickling down the bridge of his nose.

“Death is…it’s when…death is when you die,” he spat out, wincing slightly at how dim the words were, how foolish he sounded.

The tall man frowned, his arms shaking from holding himself off of the cold ground, a pool of dark red streaming from his chest down his sides before staining the stone floor.

“Death is the end,” the short man answered, nodding his head, agreeing with his response. A faint smile appeared on the shot man’s lips, pulling one corner of his mouth up.

“Some would say it is the beginning of the next thing,” he countered, slowly lying back onto the ground, his breathing shallow. The shooter bit his bottom lip, pulling at his left earlobe with a shaking hand.

“It is the action of ending this life,” he elaborated, pushing a hand onto the damp ground to keep his balance on the balls of his feet.

“An action? I’ve heard stories about death being someone, a spirit or such that collects spirits,” the dying man’s eyes seemed watched the shorter of the two shift slightly, another strand of hair falling away onto his forehead.

“It’s not the action, I guess. It could be the person, but it’s just death,” he shrugged, straightening back to standing, his knees cracking.

A fit of coughing cut through the air, erupting from the dying man’s throat, red spewing over his lips. The shooter shifted from his left to right, his hand roaming to his pocket, feeling the cool metal of the gun. He knew three bullets remained, and thought of using a second one, quickening the inevitable.

“But death is not important in the end,” the tall man wheezed, blood trickling onto his chin and down his cheeks, coating the curls of hair bordering his ears before dripping onto the ground.

The short man watched as his victim closed his eyes, blood bubbling over his lips, his chest raising up and down. He pulled his hand out of his pocket, attempting to brush off the dust starring the dark coat.

“What?” he asked, staring down, forcing back his gag at the pooling blood which slowly spreading across the grey ground.

“Death is the outcome of life. I loved and was loved. Even with my life cut short, I have lived,” he gestured to his chest while opening his eyes lazily. He gasped for breath, blood splattering onto his lips.

The air grew heavy, and the shooter knew that the tall man was about to die. He watched as the man fought to keep his eyes open before they locked onto him. He struggled under the man’s stare, feeling as if fingers were probing in his mind, reading his deepest secrets and confessions.

“Everyone dies, but not everyone lives,” he breathed, before his mouth grew slack, blood continuing to dribble out of the corner of his mouth. His dead eyes still locked onto the killer’s, unseeing. The short man shifted on his feet, breathing heavily, the silence deafening. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket, grabbing the cold metal of the gun. The weapon caught on his pocket before he pulled it all the way out, thumb resting on the hammer.

His brown eyes stared at his shaking hands, knuckles white. Shadow filled the contours of his face as he slowly raised his arm up, almost unable to support the weight of the gun.

The cold metal pressed against the man’s sweaty forehead. He breathed in a shaky breath, straightening his back and pulling back his shoulders, meeting the dead man’s eyes again, before his index finger tightened against the trigger.

The gunshot echoed through the room, seeming to bounce off of the damp grey stone walls surrounding the two men.

Author's Note

I honestly don't really know what I was writing. Reviews are appreciated!

Reviews

[Stan Lee]

That's spooky and very thought provoking. You've done a very very good job here. Keeping the readers attention all the way through... Almost agonising .. waiting for him to stop talking and just die already. But everything that he said was so deep. "Everyone dies but not everyone lives" That is a brilliant line.
Amazing write K. Very well done.

[K.Butler]

Thank you so much!