I didn't pull the trigger fast enough.
The sharp report of my 9 mm rung in my ears as he came at me with the knife. Either I missed, or he ignored the pain. I tried to move, to react, to remember my training. But I saw his eyes. That ruined me.
He wasn't wearing a mask, not shrouded in darkness, but I didn't see his face. I couldn't. His eyes flashed with danger, unpredictability, like his weapon. They were wide with the rush of adrenaline, a flicker of amusement in them. No regret, no remorse. Mockery. His eyes said he would enjoy killing me. Laughed at me even. You'll have to do better than that, they said.
I knew then he wasn't some street junkie with a box-cutter, or a petty theif who was more on the verge of shitting himself than the person before the shaking barrel. He wasn't out to prove himself to his buddies, or on a revenge-trip. After he killed, he wouldn't have a nervous breakdown and drink the guilt away. He wouldn't flinch everytime he heard a police siren.
This man would walk with his back straight, his chin held high, like an artist who just completed their latest masterpiece. He would feel proud and fulfilled. He would smile at passing strangers, comment on the beautiful weather, ask them how their day was and wish them the best. A passerby would think to themself, "Such a nice man."
He slashed at my wrist with the serrated hunting knife, knocking my pistol out of my hands. It clattered to the warehouse floor. My hands were suddenly useless. All their years of learning to fight, deflect, defend, out the window with my fear. I panicked. Took a step back. I tripped over the tip of my Docs. He laughed as I fell.
He followed, the knife raised high.
YOU ARE READING
Messorem (Under Construction)
Science FictionDarcy Silver is a homicide detective working in New Orleans. Or she was. A serial killer, self-labeled as "Messorem", makes her his latest victim. Darcy dies; but doesn't expect to be dug up and brought back to work as a Grim Reaper. And so, she has...
