Littlechoo's One-Shot The Silver Bullet

The Silver Bullet

The door slams, sending vibrations up from the floor to my feet and throughout my body. They rattle my teeth.

I clench my jaw but I do not move.

The angry engine roars to life outside. The wheels can’t get a grip on the tarmac, delaying its departure, yet I still do not move. A burning smell reaches my nostrils, a bitter reminder that I tried, yet failed. I am a failure.

The telephone ring causes my trigger finger to twitch. They both cease after the fifth shrill.

I do not move but I will my eyes to see; open and look. They jerk haphazardly to the left, resting upon the side table. I blink twice, and then focus. My brain reacts and I see it.

It taunts me – failure, not worth shit. I am and I am not.

I didn’t tell it to, but my body responds. I feel my hands grip the armrests and lift my weight out of the chair.

My eyes still have the table in sight. It is round, varnished, and adorned with a pretty white cloth. It’s the first time I’ve noticed that cloth. It is not mine.

My eyelids are heavy, yet I blink. My legs feel like lead, yet I step.

The vain above my right eye throbs, creating an ache that leads from my eye and travels to my cheek. I stand at the table looking at the shiny object that rests upon it.

I raise my left hand and stretch out my fingers. They close around the cold, dead, rosewood handle. It feels awkward in my weakest hand.

I turn, my legs retracing their footsteps across the blood-red, patterned carpet, along a well-worn path I fail to see. Gravity pulls me down and I sit in my seat, resting my elbows on each edge of the armrests.

I don’t move but I listen to the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

It takes me five seconds to in take a full breath.

Five seconds for you to say “I don’t love you”.

And it took you five seconds to walk out the door.

I hear an innocent cry; an echo, a reminder. Although it is nothing but a memory now, it wakes me from my trance and gives me strength. My knees straighten and I push up with my elbows.

I clip my gun in its place on my hip and with a slow shake of my head I walk out the door to work.