She sits at the table in a dank, gray room. Smoke from the half-gone cigarette burns her throat, but she ignores it and inhales again. There are five things on the table. A lighter the shape and oddly enough, a fair replica of the texture of a penis. The rest of the pack of Camel No. 9’s. An ashtray shaped like a cowboy hat. A highball glass with roughly four-fingers of good single-malt left in it. And the single malt’s original bottle.
In one hand burns the cigarette. The other is resting in her lap. Held gently, almost tenderly within her grasp is a Ruger .44 Magnum SS Redhawk Revolver. There’s only one bullet.
Patiently she waits. She’s at peace now. She’s finally facing her demons and nothing will stop her.
Her hands are done shaking. Her heart is done fluttering. Her grey-green eyes are clear and expressionless; calm, if anything.
Her mouth is a full and sensuous bright-red curve around the butt of the burning Camel. The thumb of her right hand strokes almost lovingly over the cool steel.
She closes her eyes and sighs her pleasure at the liquid-fire burn of good scotch on the tongue.
“Like liquid gold,” she whispers.
She doesn’t have to wait long. Her demons always find her. She senses them coming. Surprisingly, her heart stays steady; doesn’t kick up a notch like usual.
She lets loose a courageous lopsided grin.
“Must be the scotch,” she muses softly.
She puts the cigarette to her lips. Inhales. Cocks the hammer back. Exhales. And waits. Waits for just the right moment.
Her demon arrives. She’s already taken aim. She knows. She always knows, just like they do.
The resounding crack of the revolver is loud; but it’s over too fast for her to really notice.
Smoke swirls from the forgotten cigarette. Death permeates the air and a sense of finality overwhelms.
She takes another drag off the cigarette. A long one. And then another sip of scotch. A bigger sip than the last one. Quietly she leans forward and stubs out the Camel in the cowboy hat ashtray. The next sip of scotch tastes slightly salty; she realizes with a detached surprise she’s crying softly.
She’s done it. She’s killed her demons. It’s not the time for rejoicing, though. Not yet. Right now, it’s time for mourning. Her demons knew her. Intimately. They were a part of her. Intimately. Killing them was killing an intimate part of herself.
She lights another cigarette and perches it between her bright-red lips. In one hand, there’s a highball glass with two fingers of good single-malt still left. With the other hand, she gently wipes the steel of the revolver on her faded jeans. Sliding back her chair, she stands. Her scuffed boots echo her steps and close the chapter on those demons as she leaves them behind.
She walks out the room. Takes another drag, another sip.
“Yep,” she agrees with herself. “Liquid gold.”
She doesn’t look back.
~This is my first attempt at writing a short story… please comment! It felt good to get that out. It was a needed scenario. Amazing how sometimes writing can be so cathartic.
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3 comments:
Very, very nice.
Personally, I'm more a fan of confronting my demons and talking to them (they're usually rooted in pain, not malice and I firmly believe the Universe takes intentions on credit... and so do I), but some demons that's the only answer for.
It's well-written. The language is evocative, the imagery excellent. I'd avoid idealizing the character so much in future writings, but otherwise it's a great piece.
Good job!
Um... well... interesting. to say the least. It was kind of dark but intriguing. possibly too discriptive, too many things going on smoking, drinking, the gun, maybe too detailed on each. but otherwise great.
Very interesting. I like your style of writing. The detached observation, and yet the obvious connection of the writer to the story. I'm impressed. Not sure what to think of the lighter though..... I've never seen one like that. Maybe you could send me one! lol!
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