One Bullet

A Night of Clichés

Everyone says life is not fair. I think the opposite. Ever since I could remember, I always thought that life gave you consequences because you deserved them. Even if the things you do wrong only occur in the future. To me, life was fair, albeit the fact it killed me.

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When did all of this begin? I could only go so far back in my collection of memories. I suppose I should begin on the night my mother left me.

It was a dark and stormy night, our shabby house shaking from the wind howling outside. You could say it was such a cliché, but coincidences don't surprise me anymore. My mother, a beautiful woman, with long, silky, light brown tresses and cheery, child-like violet eyes, and I, a mere eight year old, were cozied up on the sofa. She was reading a book to me: the Velveteen Rabbit. I loved that story.

Minutes later, I was just about to dose off, when a loud knocking ensued on the front door. Frightened, I instantly woke up and ran to my bedroom, which down the hallway. I peeked from the thin crack of the door.

Mother got up slowly, looking a bit dazed as she opened the front door. The man-like silhouette was standing within. They were arguing, and the man seemed to grow angrier and angrier, his words turning into a restrained scream. He hit Mother, hard across the face, making her sprawl into a poor heap on the floor. They argued some more, and the man stepped into the light.

I clutched my chest then. For sure, it was a face I'd never forget, and as I studied it, hatred was pure in my heart. He had a rough, but built figure and he was very tall, perhaps about six feet. His hair was cropped and black, bringing out his tan and light blue eyes. A rugged scar ran from the tip of his chin and across his left cheek. He wore the expression of a madman.

My heart pounded. I was almost afraid that he would was able to hear it, but all my thoughts focused on Mother. More words were exchanged. The man slipped his left hand into his rain coat, and produced a silver pistol, which I later learned was called an M1911. Everything was in slow-motion for me. The barrel was pointed at Mother's head. The man whispered something, and pressed the trigger. I closed my eyes, heart pounding. It was all I could feel. Everything else just seemed to slip away, and I was floating. Then, a warm trickle of thick liquid ran underneath my toes. It was like being pushed back into reality. I hated it.

I pushed my bedroom door open, and ran as fast my short legs could carry me. A bullet hit the wall behind me as I pushed out the back door. I quickly climbed over the fence in our backyard, and I hit cold, wet pavement. My feet hurt due to my lack of footwear, but at that moment, I didn't care. At the moment, I lost everything, and the rain simply washed it away.

I couldn't remember anything after that. It so dark, and moisture blurred my vision. Headlights appeared in front of me and I jumped out of the way, into a dirty alley. In the morning, I cried.