The light spilled out from the lobby of the cinema, into the dark
wet street. In this part of town, most of the places had been closed
long ago, save for a couple of bars and this art house theater, the
only one for a hundred miles.
Daniel always thought it ironic that the only place to see a real
French film was in the same neighborhood where you could buy
heroin.
Ironic, but not funny.
He'd not found much amusing over the last few weeks. Since Rachel left
him, without giving him an explanation other than 'Fuck you, Danny',
life had been very much in the unfunny category.
Walking out of the cinema, with the handful of other patrons, he
quickly broke into a run when a cab drove past. He waved frantically,
but the yellow brick didn't notice.
He swore softly.
It started to rain again.
----------
It was a three mile walk back to his apartment, the last bus was long
gone and the chances of getting another cab were slim. By the time he'd
have walked to a busy part of town, he'd be so close to home that it
would hardly be worth the effort.
He walked.
The town was quiet this late, the bars weren't throwing out their good
paying customers quite yet. Midweek, not much happened here. Not much
happened here at the weekends, either, Daniel mused, but it happened
more loudly and drunkenly. He hated this place.
Daniel stopped by a trash can, lit a cigarette in the shelter of the
wall and inhaled long and deep. It was a little warmth, a comforting
lie. He tossed the now empty box into the can, waved goodbye to
it.
Something glinted in the faint streetlight.
Daniel stared at the outline of something familiar, something
unmistakable.
He reached into the trash, and lifted out a gun.
It was heavy. Much heavier than he'd thought a real gun could be. He'd
not touched anything like this before, and for a moment he had a memory
of childhood cap guns, light and plastic, and the weight of the real
thing was unexpected, alien.
It was a revolver. It felt snug in his hand, the weight made more sense
when it was held properly. It was chrome, the grip was rubber, black.
It smelt of grease and oil- clean in a weird way.
Daniel held the gun for a few moments, wondering how it had got there.
He looked up, saw an apartment building tower above him, a line of
windows reaching up into the clouds. Lights were on in about a quarter
of them. No fire escape, not here.
A car drove past , and Daniel was startled. He slipped the gun into his
deep coat pocket, and looked around furtively. He felt like a criminal,
just from holding the weapon.
The car didn't stop, didn't slow down. It just drove past.
Oblivious.
Daniel didn't realize he'd stopped breathing until he gasped for air,
and those gasps turned into a nervous chuckle.
He'd take the gun to the police, hand it in, tell them where he found
it. No problems.
His hand reached down to the heavy bulge in his pocket. It felt-
comforting.
Tomorrow. He'd take it to the police tomorrow.
----------
The next morning, the first thing Daniel did was get the gun out from
where he'd hidden it.
Why he'd hidden it, he couldn't say. It had just been the right thing
to do, he knew that. There was a loose floorboard in the bathroom, and
yes, it was a cliche and probably the first place people would look,
but it had just seemed proper.
It was still there.
In the bright light of morning flooding through the window, it looked
more real, less like the fantasy of finding it in the trash the night
before.
It really was clean, well looked after. Brand new, perhaps. He sniffed
it again, a long loud inhalation which made him long for a
cigarette.
He carried the gun into his living room, and placed it on the table.
After opening a new pack of cigarettes, Daniel sat at the table smoking
one after another, wondering what to do. With It.
A few moments of thought, and Daniel called his boss, leaving a wheezy
coughing message on the machine. How he'd not be in today, got rained
on last night, went straight to his chest. Sorry. See you
tomorrow.
Daniel picked up the gun, and examined it. He had no clue about how
these things worked, there were a couple of interesting things on the
side, presumable to open the, whatever it was, the chamber with the
bullets in it. Maybe taking them out would be the safest thing to
do.
As he held it, he was curious about the sense of power, the feeling of
control that people talk about in regard to guns. He hefted it, pointed
it at the picture of Rachel that still stood on top of the tv.
He grinned. He must look so dumb.
The gun was placed back on the table.
He wondered if it worked?
----------
The cab dropped Daniel off at the edge of the park. He paid the driver,
and walked off, through the gates and towards the large expanse of
trees that went for at least a mile towards the edge of the town.
This would be the best place.
His heart was racing. It was mad, of course. But he couldn't NOT try
it. He'd hand the gun in after this, but damn, he'd always wanted to do
this.
After ten minutes of walking, he found himself deep in the woods. He
stood for another five minutes, just listening. Birds sang, chirped.
The trees whispered to each other in their hushed tones. No people, no
footsteps. The path was a hundred yards away, he was as far from
civilization as he could get for a five dollar taxi ride.
He pulled the gun out, and looked around. He'd not thought about what
he'd shoot at. He should have brought a can of soda or something, but
there wasn't anything in particular nearby.
He considered that he should probably shoot downwards, just in case the
bullet travelled too far and hit something bad. That was a good, safe
plan.
He aimed the gun with determination at a patch of leaves about twenty
feet away, on the ground. They rustled in the breeze.
He felt as if he should say something.
"Son-of-a-bitch leaves."
He gripped hard, and pulled the trigger.
He pulled harder.
Damn.
He tilted the gun to the side, looked for the safety catch, whatever it
was. There was something that looked appropriate, so he pushed at it.
There was a soft click and it moved, so that was convincing enough for
him.
Those fucking leaves.
He pointed the gun resolutely at the patch of greenery, and pulled the
trigger.
Harder.
Bang.
The kick went up his arm. His eyes were closed, had been since he
pulled the trigger. The sound was sharp, concussive and very very
loud.
The smell of gunpowder, he supposed that's what it was, was strong and
it drilled into his sense of smell. He opened his eyes and the air was
filled with smoke, a faint blue haze that was quickly dispersing.
The patch of green was unharmed. There was a small burnt patch of
ground beside it that looked like it had been kicked up.
The sound. It echoed back from the woods around him. It had lingered
longer than he'd thought, been much louder than he'd thought.
He started to run, pushing the gun back into his pocket.
He stopped suddenly, pulled it back out, and pushed the safety back to
its starting position.
Then he ran again.
Five left.
