I was bored in m biology class today, so I wrote this up.
I stood at the door of a man whose name I knew not. I only knew that I had an anger, a burning passion in me that longed for retribution. There was sweat at my brow, and a loaded pistol at my hand. My finger rested underneath the trigger, almost jumping at the prospect of the events that would soon unfold. I knocked twice on the door, my fists weak with anxiety. After what seem like a lifetime, I heard the chain slide from the door, and it opened slowly.
A man stood there, his head cocked as if he was about to ask a question. Whatever it was, I will never know. I raised my arm until the gun was centered on his chest, and my shaking finger was shaking no more. The gun stung my hand, like touching a hot stove for only a moment. The man contorted, struck in the chest by unforgiving metal. His blood painted the wall, as he fell to the floor. It seemed as if time had slowed, his eyes meeting mine as his unmoving body hit the ground. I never even heard his head crash against his hard-wood paneling. My ears were numb from the gunshot.
The blood inched across his chest, a scarlet web woven by death's cold fingers. It licked the seems of his shirt as his eyes widened in agony. He drank in his last cold moment of life, and then his eyes shut for the last time.
I stayed frozen, still pointing the gun at the now lifeless man. My breathing became heavy, breaking the chilling silence that followed my execution. At last my knees buckled, and I fell to the floor, sending small bursts of pain up my leg. The blood of the man splashed upwards, splattering my coat like a child's painting. Finally my arm's fell as well, and my gun rattled and spun several times before lying still, dancing on the grave of its victim and reveling in its grisly misdeeds.
I looked around the room. The walls were blank, except for the man's blood. They taunted me, seeming to display the man's bleak future. They were canvases that he could never fill, an eerie reminder for the house's residents to be. But it was over. I looked at the fruits of my machinations, how they led me to sin. There was no time to look back now. Only time to decide whether to run or hide. However, neither seemed right. Guilt swept over me, a visceral sensation that seemed to tear me open from the inside out. It was too much effort. Too much effort to run or hide. Too much effort for a guilt-ridden low-life like me.
I slowly leaned over, and picked up my blood-soaked weapon, my companion to the looming doorstep of the afterlife. I pressed the ice-cold barrel underneath my shaking chin. I cocked the barrel, and let the bullet bite into my skin.
*edited
I stood at the door of a man whose name I knew not. I only knew that I had an anger, a burning passion in me that longed for retribution. There was sweat at my brow, and a loaded pistol at my hand. My finger rested underneath the trigger, almost jumping at the prospect of the events that would soon unfold. I knocked twice on the door, my fists weak with anxiety. After what seem like a lifetime, I heard the chain slide from the door, and it opened slowly.
A man stood there, his head cocked as if he was about to ask a question. Whatever it was, I will never know. I raised my arm until the gun was centered on his chest, and my shaking finger was shaking no more. The gun stung my hand, like touching a hot stove for only a moment. The man contorted, struck in the chest by unforgiving metal. His blood painted the wall, as he fell to the floor. It seemed as if time had slowed, his eyes meeting mine as his unmoving body hit the ground. I never even heard his head crash against his hard-wood paneling. My ears were numb from the gunshot.
The blood inched across his chest, a scarlet web woven by death's cold fingers. It licked the seems of his shirt as his eyes widened in agony. He drank in his last cold moment of life, and then his eyes shut for the last time.
I stayed frozen, still pointing the gun at the now lifeless man. My breathing became heavy, breaking the chilling silence that followed my execution. At last my knees buckled, and I fell to the floor, sending small bursts of pain up my leg. The blood of the man splashed upwards, splattering my coat like a child's painting. Finally my arm's fell as well, and my gun rattled and spun several times before lying still, dancing on the grave of its victim and reveling in its grisly misdeeds.
I looked around the room. The walls were blank, except for the man's blood. They taunted me, seeming to display the man's bleak future. They were canvases that he could never fill, an eerie reminder for the house's residents to be. But it was over. I looked at the fruits of my machinations, how they led me to sin. There was no time to look back now. Only time to decide whether to run or hide. However, neither seemed right. Guilt swept over me, a visceral sensation that seemed to tear me open from the inside out. It was too much effort. Too much effort to run or hide. Too much effort for a guilt-ridden low-life like me.
I slowly leaned over, and picked up my blood-soaked weapon, my companion to the looming doorstep of the afterlife. I pressed the ice-cold barrel underneath my shaking chin. I cocked the barrel, and let the bullet bite into my skin.
*edited
