‘Just close your eyes’, he whispers into my ear, ‘sometimes it helps.’
But it doesn’t.
It just brings my attention to the heavy, musty cigarette smoke drowning my voice out in the cramped, dismal room. And how intensely cold the barrel of the gun is against my quivering temple.
I take in harsh breaths, panicking. I can’t do it, I can’t do it.
A broad hand encircles my timid waist. I melt amongst his cedar wood cologne and sweet lips on the nape of my neck.
‘Come on’ he mumbles, ‘just pull the trigger, it will be fine.’
It won’t be fine. Four rounds already delivered, all empty. Two left. A fifty-fifty chance.
I feel the gaze of his dirty companions, burning into my shivering body, keeping my eyes closed doesn’t hide the excitement in their eyes, the sheer thrill coursing through their throbbing veins.
They want to see the bloodshed.
It’s been so long, I hear one murmur in a husky voice. The squeal of a young woman assaults my ears, as she’s forced onto his lap and groped violently.
I lower the pistol, I can’t do it.
A hand pushes it back to its former place against my head.
‘My love’, he whispers, ‘my love, please. For me.’
I cannot deny him. I can’t do it.
I pull the trigger.
Listening to some old-school Rihanna brought this one back. I’d forgotten how much I used to like her music.
Read the rest of my musically-inspired writing here!
Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt