Short Stories

PROMPT: 'It started with a picture...' (5SOS EDITION)

I slide my back down the side of my bloody truck. I can hear a fire burning somewhere in the distance, the smell of burning flesh and rubber forces its way into my nose. It's not as though I can smell much more than my own blood in the first place. 

I lift my hand up tentatively to wipe at the bloody mass underneath my broken nose and wince. I pull my hand away ginelrgly and grimace at the sight of the fresh blood on the back of my hand. I glance down and wipe the blood on my jeans-not entirely sure that it made much of a difference- and I let my hand drop to the ground beside me. My hand falls with a dull thump against the ground, the motion causing a jolt of pain to rush through my head. I'm sure that I've got a concussion and some seriously bad bruises all over my face, but that doesn't matter.

"FUCK!" I say as I look at the mess around me. The dusty clearing is scattered with burning cars and bodies, dismembered arms and torsos lie higgledy piggledy around me with blood pouring out and staining the light brown ground a horrifying black. 

"Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck!" My voice rips through the air and I slam my head into the side of the car, not caring about the pain that follows or the tears that pour from my eyes. I stuff a hand into the front pockets of my jeans and search frantically for the small square of paper. The tightness in my chest eases as my fingers come across the paper, I pull it out and unfold the square. 

It takes time to unfold it as my hands are shaking violently. I yell in frustration at my helplessness, but eventually manage to get the square open. The photo sends many emotions running through my being and things start to become unfocussed. 

"Breathe!" I command myself, "Just breathe." I force the air through my nose and out my mouth, forcing my heart to stop its erratic palpitating. Once I'm sure that I have some measure of control over my mind and body I open my eyes and focus them on the picture in front of me. 

I stare at the unseeing eyes of the girl in the photo and allow the hatred of her to fill my entire body. This photo caused this mess and ruined my entire life. Despite the hatred filling my veins, a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips. She's quite the looker: light green eyes, full red lips and luscious brown hair. I search her frozen face for a sign, any sign. Nothing, there is nothing but happiness evident. 

There is no nervousness in her face-just the crinkles of laughter in the corner of her eyes, eyes light with joy and her full lips turned up in a breathtaking smile-there is no evidence that she knows what's coming. No need for her to fear for her life. I sigh in irritation, fuck her and her stupid happiness. Her life must be perfect, even now. 

A white cross splits her face into four, the cross coming from the obsessive folding and unfolding of the picture. It makes no dent in her beauty, if anything it enhances the idea of her beauty. The idea that someone wanted her dead so bad that they had to hire me to do it? It makes her even more beautiful. I trace the white cross with the tip of my finger and let out a pathetic laugh at my thoughts.

 My eyes never leave hers, even as I run my fingers along the folds. The world around me begins to fade as I allow her eyes to pull me in. The more I look at her eyes, the more I forget that she is the cause of the mess around me, the more I forget that she has caused me so much pain. The sound of crackling fires fade into the background, the sound of my heavy breathing becomes an insignificant noise. The whole world stops because of her. 

A piercing shriek scares me out of my skin. Whoever shrieked begins to call for their mother-begging for her forgiveness-and this causes reality to hit me like a brick. I feel the picture drop out of my hand and I watch it fall with morbid fascination. It lands face down on the ground, the stark white back mutilated with the five words that caused this mess:

                                                    TARGET: MICHELLE LEVINSON

                                                            MISSION: ANNIHILATE 

Psychotic laughter bubbles up my throat and past my lips, I shake my head at the words chosen by my boss: 'annihilate'. Little did he know when he wrote those words that the outcome would be this disastrous. I am paying for what he wrote on the back of this picture. A shudder runs through my body and I quickly reach down to turn the picture around. She's truly beautiful, Michelle. With no trigger, an unbearable sadness washes over me-she didn't deserve her fate, she should have been able to live to a ripe old age with her family, only that she never had the chance. 

Michelle will never get that chance, the only thing in her future is being buried six feet under with her family crying over her grave. The funny thing is she never did anything wrong, except being the daughter of my boss' 'nemesis' as stupid as it sounds. This was the only way my boss saw to destroy his nemesis, only my boss didn't take into account what would happen did he?

"Check of survivors!" A strange voice rings out over the fires. There are sounds of confirmation followed by the crush of boots against metal. Since the voices are unrecognisable to me, it's unlikely the 'rescuers' were sent by my boss. That means that they're here to kill the survivors. 

The thud of their boots on the hard-packed earth grows steadily louder as they near me. My heart is beating so hard that I begin to wonder if that's how they know where to find me. I close my eyes and strain my ears-Michelle's jaw-dropping smile ingrained in my mind's eye-to hear their footsteps. I drop my head between my knees and give up, my shoulders slumping with an unknown weight. 

I feel sweat drop down my back and drip from my temples, despite this I am calm. I was expecting this in some small dark corner of my mind. I was and am expecting it, I am going to die. It is inevitable. I hear the boots round the side of the car and stop as they catch sight of me. There's a pause as they try to decide whether or not I'm dead, they clearly see the rise and fall of my shoulders because they call out.

"I've got one!" A tenor voice shouts.

"Ours?!" Comes the distant reply.

"No!" There's a pause. I take the moment to deliberate whether or not the voice is tenor or alto.

"Kill them!" The final order is shouted, the sentence has been delivered. 

 The boots come closer. 

"OI!" No, it's defiantly tenor. The boot nudge my side lightly, politely asking me to lift my head. I comply. My head is heavy but I manage to lift it high enough to see the figure in front of me. He's handsome, however he would be more handsome if his face wasn't lined with pity. I am going to die. He is going to kill me. 

"Fast, please." My voice scratches my throat. He searches my face and comes up short. He gives me a curt nod. 

I am going to die.

He lifts his gun and aims at the spot between my eyes. I close my eyes once again and breath deeply, Michelle's smile long gone from my mind. He loads the gun and I tense. 

It started with the picture, now I am going to die for that picture. 

He exhales loudly and I hear him pull the trigger. There is a moment of blinding pain but it doesn't last long. 

Everything stops. 

A/n

An update finally.