Short Cuts

What the guy who wrote Moby dick's brain must have looked like.

Chloe would of just turned seventeen when I saw her in the little local book store, most likely a couple of minutes away from home if she decided to take the bus home, god I wished she did, but how could I change it now ... or ever bring myself to the day.

I used to work at the local bookstore; Chloe was a regaler bookworm. I could always count on her to give me at least one safe sale from the very few that I had been having over the last past weeks I’d been having.

To replay exactly what happened I’d have to start with the conversation at the counter just like any old Monday morning, but that’s the thing it wasn’t.

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“What’s your poison this time Chloe?” I said smart and smugly “the twilight express or Charlie dickens?”

“Nether, and its chalices dickens” she replied pushing her extensive blonde hair back. She handed me a heavy text book on...

“Physics?” I was surprised I mean she’s not that weird, or is she?

“More like homework, I need it for science and if you didn’t drop out of school you’d know what that was.”

I gave her a sarcastic smirk as I handed back the newly scanned “physics” book, I always knew how she loved those looks. She’s smart, a bit too smart if you asked me like when a dog’s found a new way to get into your house after you’ve locked it for the third time, so prefect through most people’s eyes. Come to think of it she was pretty perfect; she dressed perfectly, she looked perfectly and she had a perfect family. All in all perfect girl.

“Ed, Ed!”

I blinked three times to get my brain juices flowing again.  

“Are you just going to stare at my PAID book or are you going to hand it over.”

She held her hand out with stern eyes. I was good; I did as I was told.

“Confession,” I held her attention “I love the way you answer everything in full never a don’t or gonna and so on.” I smirked

“Life is a road. The people that take shortcuts fall a hell of a lot faster than people endure, and that is the truth.”  

She turned confidently and walked away.

What she said got me thinking. I’d left school when I was fifteen to look after my stoned brother 24/7 after his major drug over dose he couldn’t even eat without someone holding his spoon for him over a bib for him. Shortcut. When he died I skipped rent and began to rellie on the five fingered discounting to keep me feed and with means of shelter. Shortcut. I skipped town after town to avoid any trouble or complications with “citizens” or “Public”, I told myself every night before I passed out drunk that I was doing these things out of spite of having a dead beat mum and no father finger apart from my newly deseed drug addict brother. Another shortcut, lying to myself to avoid any responsibility for everything I’d done up to date. I was weak.

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Little did I know I was still lying to myself even now?

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That’s when I did it. I pulled the handgun from my worn jumper pocket, she’d had just taken no more than two steps outside, to turn to utter panic. It took her once composed face. One confident shot to the roof had her with her knees in a crouched pose on the floor along with her hands on her head. She was weeping to herself, more like holding her breath so she wouldn’t make a sound, except when it came out in a drowned sniffling noise. I pointed to my old neglected car. No one came, so I forcefully yanked her arm to my height, I trusted her to find the genial direction of the crappie car.