To A Gun Fight

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     "You just don't know when to quit, do you?"

    Silvae held the rifle steady in his hands as he spoke, taking a step toward Teddy. Theodore took a step back as if that would do anything right now. With Silvae standing in front of the door, the facts were simple. Theodore was trapped in this office.

    This was it. For the entire school year, Theodore had been avoiding death, and now, days before the term was finished, he would die. Bullet to the heart, with no one around to hear him scream. Was this how it felt on the front, every time the men were ordered to go over the top? Heart racing, stomach dropped, a chill climbing the bones of your spine. Could that be the same reaction as someone knowing they're ill and feeling that disease take hold? Was this how it felt to watch the other car coming toward you, too fast to stop in time? When a man tied the rope for his throat or pressed a blade to his wrist? When a mother stared into flames?

    When does a person truly die? The moment their heart stops? Or was it the moment that the world forgot their name? Theodore knew that, eventually, no one would know who he was. The name Theodore Barrow would dissolve into meaninglessness. But, for now, he had some last, fleeting seconds. He had the choice of how his life ended: fleeing, crying, begging, or fighting.

    He would be damned if he didn't choose to fight.

   "I could say the same about you," he responded to Silvae, squaring his shoulders. 

    "You ignoble boy!" Silvae exclaimed, adjusting his hold on the rifle. Theodore was staring down the barrel of a gun at his death. 

    If he goes now, let it be with dignity.

    "Against all of my better judgment, I have let you get away. I watched you run, watched you try and fail to stop what has been written in your destiny since the day you set foot on this campus. Every day, I hate myself for it. For letting you stay as long as you have."

    Silvae tilted his head back, looking down at Theodore haughtily. 

    "But not this time. Today, you die."

    Theodore took a breath, waited for a few seconds, and stared down the rifle. The shot did not come.

    "No last words?"

    "You wouldn't record them anyway," Theodore replied, eyes turning to Silvae. The scar on his chin trembled as he again adjusted his hold on the rifle, clenching his jaw.

    "You don't seem to know why I have to do this."

     "I don't," Theodore replied. "I don't know why."

    "This school is made for the best. Good, strong students."

     "As we both are," Teddy replied pointedly. His knife was still in his hand, though he wasn't raising it anymore. What good would a blade in a pen do against the rifle that shook in Silvae's grasp?

     "No!" Silvae yelled. "You are not meant to be here. Your fate has brought you here so that you can die."

    "And what if you're wrong?" Theodore asked, raising his voice to match Silvae's tone. "What if I'm not what Saint Raphael wants? I came here to get a degree, Ratcliffe. Nothing more."

    "Do not play these games with me!"

     "My life is not a game."

     Silvae took a few more steps, and Theodore instinctively backed around, starting to circle around the desk. The tip of the rifle followed his movements, staying on him the entire time.

     "Do you really think that Saint Raphael would want you to live?"

     "Yes," Theodore answered, watching Silvae's hands, fingers changing, knuckles white. "Why can't you?"

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