(no subject)
I try to wipe the blood from my eyes, but the motion is feeble, half-hearted. My hand won't do what I tell it to, and it flops ineffectually at the crimson mask that blinds my sight. My ears still work, though, and his vicious laugh echoes through my skull. Abandoning my futile attempt to clear my eyes, I lift my gun once more. It feels like I'm trying to lift a Buick instead of a revolver.
The effort actually helps focus me. As my muscles strain to raise the weapon a few miserable inches, my mind hones itself to a razor edge. Even were my eyes clear I would see nothing now, for there is nothing to see. There is only my hand, and the weight that tries to pull it down into oblivion. I throw every fiber of my being into fighting that inexorable drag. Even so, I can feel myself begin to falter, and my traitorous arm trembles as it prepares to resume its downward arc.
I see her face, then. Not the face of the woman I loved, smiling her support through all my darkest times. No, I see what remained afterwards, the pile of meat he left behind. His laughter fades, and her screams replace them. The agony in them is so tangible that it is hard to imagine they are only memories, shadows of another time.
Her dying voice sends a cold surge through my body. Its touch purifies, and my wavering hand continues its upward journey. Her tears and blood demand that I ignore my human frailty and complete the task at hand. Clinging to this desperate energy, I settle the gun into its place, and squeeze the trigger.
At first I cannot grasp the meaning of the dull click, but as it permeates through my mind the cold strength runs out of me. A soft thud reaches my ears, and I realize the pistol has fallen from its place at my temple and now lies an eternity away on the carpet below me. It is no more useless there, though, than it was in my hand. I stare at its small metal form for a time before I realize I can see again. Apparently joining in my mockery, the wound the last bullet left across my scalp has clotted, freeing my eyes to absorb the magnitude of my defeat.
Slowly, despite the terror now clutching my heart, I raise my gaze from the floor and up along the cabinets. I am helpless to stop myself as they continue past the sink and on to their destination. Frozen, unable to breathe, I stare at my bloodied face in the mirror. I stare at the eyes seated in that face. His eyes. Slowly a smile chips through the blood encrusted lips. His smile.
I'm vaguely aware of her screams starting up again, but everything is so distant now. Her howls drift to my ears as if they came from miles away instead of from inside my own head. Soon I can't hear them at all. I can't hear myself at all. My time is done. This time...is his time.
The effort actually helps focus me. As my muscles strain to raise the weapon a few miserable inches, my mind hones itself to a razor edge. Even were my eyes clear I would see nothing now, for there is nothing to see. There is only my hand, and the weight that tries to pull it down into oblivion. I throw every fiber of my being into fighting that inexorable drag. Even so, I can feel myself begin to falter, and my traitorous arm trembles as it prepares to resume its downward arc.
I see her face, then. Not the face of the woman I loved, smiling her support through all my darkest times. No, I see what remained afterwards, the pile of meat he left behind. His laughter fades, and her screams replace them. The agony in them is so tangible that it is hard to imagine they are only memories, shadows of another time.
Her dying voice sends a cold surge through my body. Its touch purifies, and my wavering hand continues its upward journey. Her tears and blood demand that I ignore my human frailty and complete the task at hand. Clinging to this desperate energy, I settle the gun into its place, and squeeze the trigger.
At first I cannot grasp the meaning of the dull click, but as it permeates through my mind the cold strength runs out of me. A soft thud reaches my ears, and I realize the pistol has fallen from its place at my temple and now lies an eternity away on the carpet below me. It is no more useless there, though, than it was in my hand. I stare at its small metal form for a time before I realize I can see again. Apparently joining in my mockery, the wound the last bullet left across my scalp has clotted, freeing my eyes to absorb the magnitude of my defeat.
Slowly, despite the terror now clutching my heart, I raise my gaze from the floor and up along the cabinets. I am helpless to stop myself as they continue past the sink and on to their destination. Frozen, unable to breathe, I stare at my bloodied face in the mirror. I stare at the eyes seated in that face. His eyes. Slowly a smile chips through the blood encrusted lips. His smile.
I'm vaguely aware of her screams starting up again, but everything is so distant now. Her howls drift to my ears as if they came from miles away instead of from inside my own head. Soon I can't hear them at all. I can't hear myself at all. My time is done. This time...is his time.