"It's not a good day for a gunfight," I blurted out.
This was the first time something I said had stumped Laurence O'Shea; for every grumble and groan, he had a witty response; for every complaint, he had a silver-lining. This time, he only offered a downwards glance, the wind howling outside, and the wails of beggars on the streets.
He placed his head in his hands, leaning back in his chair. "Are you scared of it?"
"I guess," I shrugged, "I just can't slip up."
In truth, I was horrified. When my father first told me about it, I went red in the face and rushed up to my room, tried to hide my pistol from myself, then pleaded with my father to call it all off. Protecting Livingstone territory in some turf war wasn't worth spilling blood. Yet, my father reminded me that I was to take over the Livingstone men soon. For that, friendships had to be put aside.
"You guess? I'm bloody terrified," he laughed, pushing a red curl out of his face. His hair had always been the brightest.
I gave a weak smile. "Will you be there?"
"I'm afraid I have to be, same as you."
We had both been in gang fights before; it was merely the prospect of fighting each other that made us uneasy. I could easily shoot his father or brother, friend or cousin. I was one misfire from straining our friendship beyond repair and one act of caution from letting the Livingstone image dissolve into dishonor.
And yet, Laurence and I soon stood among our ranks, guns drawn, the lake's breeze whipping across our faces and the air heavy with the threat of blood. Here and now, we were enemies. The nights spent longingly in the cathedral plucking guitar strings, having long talks about the unpredictability of it all, and practicing slight of hand were no more. I brought my shaking fingertips to the pistol attached to my side.
I wasn't sure who was the first to fall, yet the gunshot marked the beginning all the same.
My pistol quivered in my hands, mindlessly pointed every which way. Bodies swarmed as if we were fish caught in a net; screams pierced the foggy air.
A flame of red passed through the crowd, a terribly familiar voice yelling words of warning. Then another flash of red—was that one him? Tall, that one was tall. Fingers of a guitarman, I saw it clear. It was him, I think. Yet, if it wasn't? He was lunging towards one of my father's men, one of my men. Now he was moving towards me. There was a glint of silver—it had to be a knife. I didn't recognize him from here. I couldn't, not like this. All I saw was red, red, red—there were so many O'Sheas, it wasn't him.
I raised my gun on instinct.
But maybe it was.
He was dead before I could decide if I even wanted to shoot.
