Short story 1


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1. The muzzle in the rain

I sit in the rain with a gun.

The rain pours down violently on the violence of the past.

Fuck.

This is it.

Bone-yard is what I see, what I think.

No need for escape. They are all dead.

The brown rust shines like new wood. Like new wood from some memory I can’t quite see. A toy, a walk, a chair.

I turn the gun over.

A few spent cartridges. I see one or two near me.

Man is a dog and the whole world is his chain. And somewhere out there a dog is barking.

I’m soaked through but my heart is beating so hard and my chest is contracting, it feels like a warm shower.

Leaning against the wall, my legs outstretched, I soon feel the weightlessness creep in. My breathing slows down and a euphoria sweeps through me.

When someone takes a razor and carefully cuts across a pillow, it is no longer a pillow. It opens into something else.

And when a man bleeds, he changes too.

A grip, a barrel, a muzzle, a bullet. This semi-automatic pistol in my hand, leading me to this moment all my life.

I stare out.

In the stories there are no villains that die happily.

I think I can die happily here.

With the gun in my hand. The rain beating down. The dog barking.

The two bodyguards, big as lions, dressed in blackest black, lying face down, praying to dumb concrete. And my mark, bleeding out like me, crawling across the dirt.

A bullet is a tigress that makes a banquet from your soft body. And he’s getting feasted on now.

I am not a bad man. But I am not a good man.

I am just a man now, sitting in the rain, dying.

Tomorrow they can tell the story. I don’t mind how they tell it.

Just as I close my eyes, my phone beeps, like someone stepping off an electric curb. I take it from my inside jacket pocket.

It reads: Zone 2, 10:45.

I see the mark, blurred now by my dying and the rain. He hits earth. Iron fillings for the iron world.

I look up. The yellow sign says Zone 12. My phone says 11:48.

In the end, we are all accidentally murdered.

By time, by guns, by assassins, by numbers, by shipyards in the rain, whatever it is.

The last thing I see is the first thing I feel. Then nothing.

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