Sammy sat hunched at the foot of the bed, barefoot, feeling the weight and balance of the revolver resting quietly across his open palm. The barrel was cold against his skin. He knew this gun, knew its presence and gravity. The hard chill at the base of his skull placed itself again with that same steady certainty, fresh like yesterday. He jumped suddenly to his feet as the the deliberate creak and click of the hammer drew itself across his memory like a strand of spider's web, the rounded snap filling his ears to a point near deafness. His fingers now clutched tightly around the fraying surgical tape of the grip, his thumb conformed firmly to the shallow valley of the hammer, cocked and ready. A bead of sweat caught his eyelash and blinked his lid, breaking his momentary reverie. Sammy looked down at his thumb on the hammer, his index finger snug against the trigger's curve. He turned his head toward the mirror above the bureau. The figure that faced him stooped forward, one hand clutched protectively behind its neck, the other steadily rising on the full length of an unflinching arm. Half of the figure's grayish face was now blocked by the widening barrel of an old revolver. Sammy stared into the lifeless black of the hole at the end.
"And why not?" the figure mouthed, its one sapphire eye cold and logical.
Archiving all of these memories
2 years ago