11 Seconds

11.3 Seconds.

 

I look at you.

I take you in from head to toe for one last time.

Your light brown minced black hair sticking right up. Strong brown jaw, sincere brown eyes, thin brown lips, wide brown nose, beauty mark on your left jaw. Thick brown neck, tight white t-shirt, muscular brown arms, grey and green checked shorts, shaped brown legs, white sneakers. A puzzled smile pulling at the corners of your brown mouth.

I raise my arm.

Surprise in your brown eyes. Then, fear. You lift your hands in the air. Like in a bad cops and robbers film. You take a step back, your sneaker catching in a crack. You take your quick eyes off me for a split second.

The cartridge clicks.

I can hear someone breathing in my ear loudly. I look back. No one. Something is thumping in my throat. My eyes sting. I see fine droplets of perspiration breaking out on your brown upper lip and your brown brow. You’re saying something but I don’t hear it. Your lips are moving but no sounds seem to be coming out.

Your back thumps against the wall.

Now I can feel something wet sliding down my chest. Sweat. My hand shakes, clutching the hard cold metal. I wipe my bangs out of my eyes with my one hand, the other one twitches and I can hear your sharp intake of breath. You’re still talking, and I don’t know why I can’t hear you.

I consider my circumstances. The wind has picked up, and tears are now running down your brown face like murky rivers. I see a wet drop on the ground and realize that I must be crying too. The trees rustle, I can hear them. But even though your brown mouth is rapidly moving faster I still can’t hear you. You seem to be pleading. Every now and then you pause to wipe your arm across your nose.

I take a step forward.

You’re sobbing now, the moan racking through your chest. You don’t look like you anymore. Your face is contorted. And purple. And I still can’t her you.

Suddenly there’s a lump the size of a small stone in my throat.

You can sense that something is coming. You close your eyes and open your mouth to scream.

I pull the trigger.

And that’s when I heard you.

As your knees buckle out from under you, I hear your last word. At first my mind is too groggy with the sudden head rush to identify it. The revolver drops from my hand as both my arms suddenly grows lame. My breathing comes in short rasps.

Where your brown face was is red. And a red hole in your temple. Your red minced black hair sticking right up. Strong red jaw spoiled, sincere red eyes turned up into their red sockets, thin red lips still parted, wide red nose ruined, no beauty mark on your left jaw. Thick red neck twisted unnaturally, red t-shirt glistening, muscular red and brown arms slumped to your sides, grey and red checked shorts, shaped red and brown legs tucked in under you, white and red sneakers.

The wall behind you is splattered like an abstract art painting. Crimson. Scarlet.

Everything is red.

Your mouth is open. Half your word still in it.

That’s when I realize that the word is my name.

 

I smother the gun in your own fingerprints and leave it lying next to you. I take a step back, change my mind, and then lean in. The air is acrid and irony around you. I tilt my face to yours.

And run away with your blood on my lips and hands.

 

They can’t prove anything. Dead men tell no tales.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[AbsentElements]

The ending is great, I love the way it ties together. The whole thing is so supsensful, almost a feeling that the character will turn back and decide not to shoot. The descriptions of red become one detail of the piece that you can't miss, almost the most important. That everything is red. Still at the same time it keeps you wondering.... Why did it all happen.

Amazing imagery. Wonderful write.