6th Floor Shooter || #Wattys2017

III

// 22 November 1963 // 15:24 //Fort Worth, Texas //

"Mrs. Kennedy was not hit"

The faster he drove, the more rapidly the brick constructed confines of the city retreated from his line of sight. Before he knew it, the turmoil of Dallas had subsided into nothing but a blur on the receding horizon. Wind whipped through the open window, thrashing his damp hair across his face. With the cigarette smoke still fresh on his breath, every exhale brought temporary relief from the pungently betraying gunpowder on his hands. Is it really as stifling as I think? Or am I just being paranoid? He thought to himself.

He didn't slow his vehicle until he had long passed the Dallas suburbs and his only witnesses were the patchy and half-dead shrubbery lining the perimeter of the crumbling pavement. When the vehicle rolled its tires over the concrete, the crunch of the loose gravel hummed in his ears, drowning out the devastated voices on his radio. It wasn't until he had fully brought the vehicle to a stop on the edge of the freeway did he effortlessly swing open the door on its smooth hinges, step his buckskin boots onto the grit, and slam the door behind him with such force that the entire vehicle trembled in response.

He reached a calloused hand through the driver side window, which remained open, and absentmindedly rummaged through the contents of the visor. He extracted a single cigarette, the lone remainder of the pack. Lighting it with one hand, the fingers on his other found their way down the smooth synthetic buttons of his work shirt. Starting from the top, he manipulated every one through their corresponding holes. The wrinkled fabric loosened around his shoulders. Pulling at one of the cotton sleeves, he peeled the sweaty shirt off of his well-built frame and forced it off of his body. Once again, the defined odour of metal and sulphur pierced his nose.

Shuddering in the early afternoon climate, he removed the cigarette from his mouth, exhaled a plume of shimmery smoke, and replaced it. Taking another drag, he crumpled the clammy work shirt. Without so much as a second thought, he hurled it into the thorny underbrush. The pattern of the material camouflaged indistinguishably into the speckled, mustardly yellow of the late-fall turf.

Filling his lungs with the tantalising smoke once again, he reached a hand, now much steadier than before, towards the door handle. As he wrapped his fingers around it, he pulled it slightly and the door opened. Finally, he sat back down on the leather seat and set along the open highway towards the city. The radio still poured out voices riddled with disbelief and shock, but he didn't care anymore.

For the entire drive, his mind was caught in a violent battle between unparalleled grief and unbridled rage. Hundreds of times, he had travelled down the familiar concrete path, all in preparation for today. He had been like an actor, painstakingly preparing for a public show. And, like a live performance, the danger of the situation straying from plan had the potential to be fundamentally catastrophic.

His mind was on autopilot as the perishing vegetation faded away and the crudely constructed brick structures took their place, framing Dallas like a feeble skeleton. Every other occasion on which he had travelled that path, he had been fixated on his plan. Now that it had passed, he was left with only the moral warfare raging a violent battle within the confines of his brain...

I'm the one who killed President Kennedy. It was me, 'nd only me. I should be dead. They should have killed me. It was a suicide mission gone wrong. He is dead... I killed him. The deed is done, I can't change it. It wasn't supposed to happen this way, but its done. Its over.

He inhaled sharply, taking one last contenting draw from his cigarette, before flicking it all through the window. In a matter of seconds, his calm and rational demeanor had diminished, leaving behind a rage so hot it radiated like fire from his soul, through every inch of his body.