The Pact
Reaching down to the depths of my bag, fingers grazing the raw underside of the leather, I delve deeper until I feel the rigid filigreed metal of my grandmother’s gun. I trace the cool ivory handle with my fingers and in my mind, taking in the sure smooth certainty of its existence, imagine the recoil jolt that will come when I fire.
It is a solid pistol, heavier than it looks with the dainty paste diamonds inset into the side. A jewel for each word: ‘I-love-you’. A strange gift, though things were different then. The gun was a relic from the war; but it worked. I knew it did. And Danny knew it too.
Commuters burst onto the pavement like bubbles; smack, pop, rustle, hustle, murmurs, laughter. At every sudden move or sharp noise I tense.
How would he do it?
Would he come alone?
Gazing around, alert but outwardly nonchalant, I consider my disguise.
Hooker boots, fur coat, laddered tights, vermillion lips. The wig might be overkill; too theatrical. Maybe. I hope not. I need the upper hand so I can strike first. I smile to myself as I play over the victory that will be mine. The smile clings to my face, twisting and static, as the bullet skims my heart. The scream in my head consumes me. I don’t feel any pain. Blood seeps then gushes into the cheap, stiff fur of my coat. My heart is the killer as it furiously pumps away my life. Time slows. A sticky, metallic taste. I buckle and slide to the ground. The pavement dank, hard and spattered with shit and spit and dirt.
He got to me first. I’m nothing.
A well-known park where people walk their dogs. Station opened in 1906 as Dover Street and renamed Green Park in 1933.
Rebecca is a writer, blogger, diarist and mass observer with a keen interest in ‘documenting the everyday’ through scrapbooks, journals and collage. She has written stories and poems ever since she can remember, capitalising on her vivid imagination, rich inner world and love of words. Rebecca lives in Scotland and drinks a lot of tea.