---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Light poured in through the windows against the far wall, reflecting gently off the treaded parquet floorboards. The shades, drawn, revealed the chipped paint of the windowsill. Overexposure perhaps. Flecks of white had fallen to the floor, only to find themselves resting between the cracks of the wood, or periodically swept, cautiously under the heating pipes. The faucets were calm, no drips-no drops. French blinds cast a hesitant shadow, in the next room- vacant.
He sat and stared at the man in front of him, as the sun peeled its way from a cloud. The light glimmered off the rim of his glasses. A slight squint. He watched the man's eyes open and close, first at a rapid pace, and then slower, pausing, grasping for site- mimicking his breath. Drops of blood lined his face with undesired freckles. His right hand retrieved a cloth from a pocket- a smear into his pores. Shortened breaths caressed the palm of his hand as the cloth passed over his cheek.
His breath told a story. No words. There was a fading depth to his pupils. He suddenly understood the inconsistency in the story. He watched the man lift the .44, still whispering smoke and mimicked his smile as he watched the gun retreat to his side. Blood continued to run down the cracks of his palm. He felt the power of the man's cliché.
By the stroke of a trigger-
His mind raced, he could sense the urgency. The scent of blood filled his nostrils, as it speckled the floor- rose petals. He watched an arm, outstretched, reach for him. He reached for it, and felt an unfamiliar warmth. He looked up, and watched as the man's eyes rolled back. Another slight smile. Darkness-
His body fell to the side softly, arm still oustretched. He lurched forward toward the other hand. The mirror shattered as it fell to the floor. The sun's rays refracted off the broken shards of glass illuminating his motionless body.
Vacant, except for a whispering .44.
No comments:
Post a Comment