wolven7 | Fiction: Untitled Noir Short or "Not That Easy"

I lay there, for a few minutes, collecting myself, getting back up to speed, as she walked out of my door, and out of my life, forever. She left the whisky bottle, within reach, because she knew I'd want it, and she was right. There was a pain in my gut, a fire, and there was only one deep golden brown burning way to put it out. Or fuel it. I didn't care which, right then. I grabbed the bottle, and pulled the pack of Luckies from my pocket, pulled from the bottle, and lit the cigarette. The three diffrent burns mingled into a core of cold fire, and I knew I could sit up, again, ready to try something, anything, to take my mind off of the pain.

Drunk, already, I tried to drag myself over to my desk, to check and make sure she had tleft the important things: The papers, the books. My gun. My bullets. Only the gun. She didn't empty the chamber, even though she thought to take the clip and the box of extras. So there was a piece of luck, wouldn't you say? I made my way over to the coat rack, put the bottle, the smokes, and the gun in their usual places, and worked out the best way to fix this. I reeplayed the last fifteen minutes, in my head, as I walked.

She says, "It's over, Sam. He knows about you and me, and he's real mad. But he said it'd be okay, if I ended it, with you-- just so long as I did it now. I'm sorry..." And she starts crying.

I stare at her, across the desk, and I say, "You had to bring this shit here? You had to do this to me, here? You couldn't call? You couldn't bring me this at home? I work, here, Rachel. I don't need this, now.."

She wipes her eys and they get hard, go cold. Good. I feel like a shit, for being mad at her while she's sobbing her eyes out. She sniffs a few more times and she says, in a voice that she tries so hard to keep from trembling, "I told you, Sam: He said I had to do it today. He wanted to see."

And that's when he walks in from the hall.

I rounded the corner, down on fourth street, and I saw them, there. He was laughing it up, having a great time, and Rachel was clutched on to his arm like if she didn't she'd sink away, float away, drown in the loss. I knew where they were heading, so I figured I had time to make a quick detour, before catching up with them. I cut over on State street, and stumbled my way into Shorty's bar. I put the half-full bottle down on the counter, and I put the gun down, next to it, and I said, "I need a refill."

Shorty's known me for years, and he knew, then and there, that something was going down tonight, and it was gonna be bad. He stood there, looking at the bottle, and the .45, and he said, real slow, "Sam-- I don't know if I got what you need to refill that. I don't think..."

"Shut up, Shorty. I only need half. If you'd look, you'd seen that I already got the rest." I pulled from the bottle, not taking my eyes off of him not taking his eyes off of the gun and he said, "Sure, Sam. Sure." Slowly, he reached under the counter, and pulled out a box of bullets, and an empty clip. I pulled out one bullet, slipped it into the clip, and went on my way. On my way out Shorty called to me and said, "Sam! Be careful, Sam: you look like Hell, come for breakfast."

I knew what meant, so I didn't correct him; instead I called back, "Thanks, Shorty-- I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

He looks at me and he says, "Hello Sam. I never thought it'd be you. I guess I should have figured it out, but... Well. You know how it is with people you respect."

He has his hands in his pockets, and that's the dangerous part. Martin's an avid amateur illusionist: he likes to pull off tricks, sleight of hand, that kind of thing. Does it to impress people. It doesn't impress me... It worries me.

"I'm sorry it has to be this way, Sam." His hand leaves his pocket.

I caught them in the alley, behind the club, knowing they thought they were safe. Together, then, without a care. I thought I saw tears in her eyes, she was so damn happy. I took the safety off of the gun, and pulled out the whisky bottle.

I'm not watching her hands.

I hit him, hard, but not hard enough to break the bottle; I still wanted that, so I set it next to me. He went down, and she screamed, and I pulled out the .45, and I pointed it at his head, while he was on all fours, on the ground, in the alley. I pulled the trigger.

I feel it first, the white hot burning into my gut, making me bleed out, making me fall down, but when I hear it, it's a "BOOM." Not a "Bang."

*Click!* I pointed the gun at her.

I lay here, for a few minutes, while she makes her way out the door; he's already gone. She puts the bottle near to hand...

*Click!* I fell over. I landed on the bottle of whisky, and it shattered, and the fall knocked the two-bullet clip out of my other hand. She tried to drag him away down the alley, dazed as he was, hysterical as she was, and as everything started to go dark I could see that there was about a shot left, in the neck of the bottle. It was going to be the best damn drink I ever had.
©Damien Williams. All Rights Reserved.

Music While Writing: Cassandra Wilson - [Strange Fruit]; Patsy Cline - [Crazy]; Sxip - [My Own Dirge]; Belly - [Low Red Moon]; LUXT - [Folding]; A Perfect Circle - [A Stranger]; Covenant - [Bullet]; The Young Gods - [Alabama Song]; Tori Amos - [Crucify]; Nine Inch Nails - [Hurt]

"Bullet" came on when Sam was buying them. That was creepy.