6th Floor Shooter || #Wattys2017

VI

PART II

// 23 November 1963 // 06:30 // Parkland Memorial Hospital // Dallas, Texas //

"I want them to see what they have done to Jack"

    Ed cut the power to the radio.

His silver Studebaker sat in the gravel parking lot of a strange and foreign brick structure. Tessellated clay slabs crawled to dizzying heights above his head, a silhouette against the transient November sunrise. He had been there for hours already, perched soundlessly and timelessly anticipating his next move.

He had arrived in the parking lot shortly after he fled the escalating suspicion at the Carousel Club. In that time, an autumn gradient of watercolour sunset blush had emblazoned itself across the horizon, colours sweeping over the landscape with the precision of a paint brush. Beady black pupils peered around the hostile hospital exterior until the docile evening palate had faded away, overcome by inky indigo that swallowed any hint of light. There were no stars to interrupt the consuming cobalt expanse. And finally, in the dying moments fleeting nightfall, a sea of vivid, flushed ginger and scarlet crawled into the sky, embellishing an already picturesque sunrise. He didn't even notice.

    Instead, he fixated on the sleek informative sign slung low on the hospital portico. Flickering lights illuminated bolded block letters reading out only two foreboding words: Ambulances Only.

How satirical, he thought, considering that less than twenty-four hours ago the same parking lot was filled with everything except for ambulances. Images of the leather interior of the Presidential motorcade saturated in blood filled his mind. No, he hadn't seen the sight himself, but he could imagine the trauma he had inflicted. He closed his penetrating eyes and inhaled sharply, letting the events of the past day flow through his brain.

Prying his aching body from a rigid and unforgiving mattress... Dressing himself, slowly and deliberately, ahead of a grungy mirror that matched the cheapness of his apartment... suffocating wool pants, one leg at a time... checkered sleeves pulled over an already perspiring torso. A routine drag from one of the abundant cigarettes inside the ceramic bowl perched upon his dresser...

Retrieving the inexpensive Italian rifle from beneath his sofa, wrapping it in a fraying and threadbare bed sheet... slinking down the street, unnoticed, and lost in the pulsating anticipation... drizzling rain leaking from the dreary haze above... limping up the decrepit service staircase to an inconspicuous corner on an upper floor... the intoxicating and roaring applause from the crowd below, deafening him... voices growing louder and louder with each passing second as the motorcade drew closer to his telescopic sight... the faint reconsiderations as he slid the gun from its envelope within the sheet...

A flash of pink crawling through the street at a snail's pace towards the corner... apprehensive snowy gloves waving tentatively at the adoring mob ... a mottled grey mouse darting over the toe of his flashy boot... losing focus, losing his shot... a steadying breath... cool metal stinging against his skin...cr-boom ... the bucking of the gun in his trembling arms, no reaction below... frantically jostling the bolt... cr-boom... panic below, a pink hat turning slightly and appearing unharmed...

His frustrated exasperation... once again, furiously seizing the bolt... expended casings tumbling behind him, clambering against the cases of stacked textbooks, their shrill ping muted by the thunderous beating of his heart... another drawn out breath, no time to aim his shot... fear and adrenaline ebbing through every constricted muscle in his body... cr-bang... an all-consuming dread suffocating his lungs, the President's head lashing abruptly back... his body falling limp like a rag doll...