His pupils dilated, but returned to normal in a second, the tension left his body and he analyzed the situation. The rapid drop in adrenaline and anger, and the first stages of denial.
He had been waiting for the cell phone to ring, attentive to any noise it made. He knew that, at some point, the little device would emit a notification; one, which would somehow prove that his plan had worked, that the things he was doing would have a meaning and a justification, that it could save him....
But things... almost never go as planned. That's not how the world works, that's not how life works.
And what could he do against the inevitable accident.
He could scream, he could make a scene and let himself be carried away by the desperation of the situation, relapse into the anxiety of not being able to do anything and not knowing how to deal with such an event, which, however similar it may be to the past he is trying to forget, was, for many circumstances, different.
It made sense, in a way it did. What Bubba was telling him was true, intelligence provided the subject with the ability to see things rationally and objectively, maybe for that reason... maybe for that reason, he knew that trying to do something would do no good.
In truth, he felt that things would end up like this; what that fortune teller told him at the fair, the letters of revelation that Crafty turned over to him... as objective as he was, he sensed that the universe was trying to show him something, that it was trying to tell him something important, to warn him that nothing would change, that he could not avoid calamity.
And nightmares
Perhaps the most important message the universe gave him. What he saw in them was the same pattern every time, in every one of them, in every damn dream that seeped through his broken consciousness... It always ended badly, always because of him.
And this time would be no different.
- ... -
He saw the firearm in his hand, a 5-shot revolver... appreciating for a moment the platinum color of it, seeing that of the 3 bullets he had, only one was left, leaving him the capacity of one last shot...
He lowered his hand, and sighed.
...I knew what I could do now.
- ... -
He would surely die soon, he was still awake, but not for long. Time was running out, and with it the chances of saving him, or well, those same chances had been lost from the first moment he pulled the trigger.
To save him, because he himself... he himself no longer had salvation, he never had it.
In none of those worlds of dreams and nightmares did he have redemption.
Not even in this one, that no matter how important it was to him, no matter how much he loved it, he could not save it.
It is unfair
- ...Isn't it... Dogday? -
His sad look was faintly reciprocated by the dog on the ground, who was barely awake from the blunt impact of the ammunition. A sad, helpless look... and from the ground, a hurt, disappointed look... From there, I could see in the front row what would happen next, when the purple cat, raised the gun once more....
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