The gun was cold in his hands.
A soft tip emitted everytime a drop of blood met the hardwood, he stood frozen in time watching the unmoving body. The ever growing pool of blood underneath the breathless figure. The sound of rain hitting the windowpane as reassurance. The flickering bulb above the small coffee table in the living room, he could see the moths and flies circling around the light. The smell of gunpowder wafting into his nose everytime he took a shaky breath, the ear splitting gun shot rang in his head time and time again, his hands trembling not from the cold atmosphere inside the cozy aboad, but from the sheer feeling of warm blood being replaced by terror-filled freezing blood. There was no euphoria from watching the woman in front of him drop to the floor in an unmoving heap, standing there and listening to her rasp for breath as the bullet pierced her chest and through her lung before she took a single final desperate rasp before going still.
Stories, he could only remember stories of people retelling their experiences of murder, that rush of adrenaline and that feeling of jittery euphoria as they exited the scene.
Most of all, he remember his father's retelling. That sick bastard's honey covered words behind that glass as he told him all about how he strangled his own wife in that cold apartment. How the life drained away from her eyes as she begged him teary eyes to realize what he was doing, her final breath of "I forgive you" forgotten in his crazed grin.
It was just cold, the body, his hands, the gun, the air. He wasn't thinking, just existing. Hearing his own laboured trembling breaths escape his lips, a sheen line in his eyes the sting of tears in his nose. The hair sticking to his forehead from sweat, he could feel every fiber of the clothes he was wearing, feel the air throughout the house, feel the trigger his index was softly brushing up against, threatening another bullet in the cold already lifeless body.
He sucked in a breath between his teeth and closed his eyes, tears began to form in the corners. The situation felt more real and he felt more alive than he ever had, he had made breakfast today. Eggs on toast, he wondered what she had made for breakfast. If anything at all.
A shaky sob shook his shoulders and a distressed moan escaped his throat, shoulders hunching as his knees suddenly felt wobbly like jello. They buckled, not like he expected them to hold any longer and he slid down to his knees, gun clattered onto the floor beside his knees as his fingertips prickled with the sensation of being there instead of numbness, his hands shielding his face from the body, he could smell it. The stench of blood and death, the metallic glow of blood against the soft hum of the flickering bulb.
It was all too much.
He didn't even notice how he had gotten there, but he could feel the rain on his shoulders, dampening his black formal suit, the rain flattening his hair and washing his hands from previous dried up crimson. The smell of rain, the sounds of rain, his vision wasn't there. Well it was, he was just to tired to see. Too tired to fully process the fact that he had somehow dragged himself out of the small apartment and tumbled down the steps, stumbling out into the cold biting night like a lost puppy.
He was just too cold, hearing the squelch of his shoes, feeling the rain littering his back like a blanket. A cold unforgiving blanket but it was more than he could ask for at that moment.
He took a final stumble before his calves succumbed to numbness and sent him back down onto his knees with a splash. His knees bruised and cold, his fingertips lightly brushing the concrete under him. He could hear everything and nothing at the same time, his mind blank and quiet as he searched desperately for that rational voice that guided him through multiple interviews and presentations in high school. But it had left him the first time he truly begged for it.
Finally, he heard something. Definite and finite, a soft thump, Clank. Thump, Clank.
And he wasn't as cold anymore, he could finally feel something aside from the empty numbness. The bullet rain had subsided.
"What'cha doin' here all by yourself? "
His breath hitched, lodged in his throat as tears threatened to well up in his eyes once more.
"I just killed someone. "
Pitter patter
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
أدب الهواة( FMA Mafia au, i was bored no Wi-Fi) He tipped the umbrella forwards, casting it above a dark haired man on his knees. "What'cha doin' here all by yourself? " He questioned, the soft pitter of rain replied. He could see the street lights emitting...
