"Your sniper?!" You ask incredulously.
Your vision blurs with images of red, pale, death. Lifeless bodies, ashen skin, the sulfuric smell of gunpowder, the flash of the barrel.
You don't even have that much experience with guns. You couldn't name or even guess what rifle you would be holding if someone just shoved it into your hands, much less how to operate it.
"Get off of me," you hiss, wriggling out from underneath the human embodiment of insanity.
"I'm not going to be your sniper, that's sick," you sneer, getting to your feet. They remain catatonic on the ground, acting as if they still have your coat lapels under their fingers.
Finally, they look up.
"Wrong answer," the words are quiet and low before a wide grin spreads over their dry, cracked lips, slicing their small face apart like a gaping wound.
They pull a small gun from their baggy hoody pocket, the type you see concealed in sleeves and hidden in the smallest of spaces.
But it's enough, you soon see, as they pull the trigger.
The bullet shatters the bones met under the initial collision, sending fragments of your frontal bone within your skull where it continues to ricochet, never finding the power to get back out.
Game Over
YOU ARE READING
Futile Trials
AdventureThis is a your choice story. But choose carefully, many of these paths will lead to an unfortunate end.
