One Bullet
His feet were bleeding, leaving a trail from his office to the broomroom behind the kitchen.
He was feeling more annoyed and angry by the blood that in ended up numbing the pain.
Minues ago he was drinking whisky on his office, seconds later in a fit of rage he smashed the glass half full against the wall next to the door, the crash sprayed glass and liquor all over the office.
He tried stepping over what he had done before smashing the glass, but his balance failed him and ended up falling on his naked feet over the sharp shards, bleeding, he cursed again, he cursed someone.
Out of the room he took care of the biggest shards, each step bloodier, each step angrier, each step painless.
Yet one thing on his mind was clear, he had to clean his blood from the floor, the shards of glass, the liquor, he was angry at himself, such a waste, a mess of great taste.
Broom, mop and fiber to wipe.
From the first aid kit in the kitchen he took alcohol and bandages, wipping his feet and went back to clean.
Upon reaching the office, he broomed and moped, wiped around the desk, on his knees on the floor, wiping what was left, he catched a glimpse of a dull reflection, clouded in the smallest mirror of the woul, he saw himself a mess, he wondered if that was how he had always seemed to who now was it.
Blood was still leaking to the floor, he left it there, there was not much point in cleaning it.
A single lock of hair was out of place, his shirt was sweaty, his pants were full of blood.
In front of a real mirror, he fixes himself, a clean shirt, clean pants, belt, a dark suit, he combs his hair and washes his face.
He would not let anyone see him in his former state.
In his office he apreciates the blank empty stare he was not proud of, but he did not regret it.
He stepped on it again, hoping it would still feel some pain, he deserved it.
The device was broken, it broke the first time he stepped over the chest.
He was still bare feeted, he got to his chair behind the destk, he could hear them coming, lighting up a cigarret, he breathed in the smoke and lingering smell of alcohol in the room and the faint trace of powder in his nose.
He accepeted the smoke and his fate, still with anger inside, a calm focused anger, he had accpeted this better than his best friend coming clean of having an affair with his wife.
He checket the gun on his desk, one bullet was missing from the clip, not exactly missing, he knew very well where that bullet was, it was all it had taken, a bullet to end a life of friendship.
Flashes of red and blue.
Her wife had heard the confession, she was on the line while everything was happening, she heard the shot, after the last breath he trashed the glass upon hearing the faint voice of his wife coming from the floor within the pocket of the lump of flesh lying on the floor.
Men in blue knocket dwon the door, thre was no need, he had left it unlocked, just as he had left the body bleeding on the floor in front of his desk.
He saw them in the corridor.
He took the gun.
He shot.
He was feeling more annoyed and angry by the blood that in ended up numbing the pain.
Minues ago he was drinking whisky on his office, seconds later in a fit of rage he smashed the glass half full against the wall next to the door, the crash sprayed glass and liquor all over the office.
He tried stepping over what he had done before smashing the glass, but his balance failed him and ended up falling on his naked feet over the sharp shards, bleeding, he cursed again, he cursed someone.
Out of the room he took care of the biggest shards, each step bloodier, each step angrier, each step painless.
Yet one thing on his mind was clear, he had to clean his blood from the floor, the shards of glass, the liquor, he was angry at himself, such a waste, a mess of great taste.
Broom, mop and fiber to wipe.
From the first aid kit in the kitchen he took alcohol and bandages, wipping his feet and went back to clean.
Upon reaching the office, he broomed and moped, wiped around the desk, on his knees on the floor, wiping what was left, he catched a glimpse of a dull reflection, clouded in the smallest mirror of the woul, he saw himself a mess, he wondered if that was how he had always seemed to who now was it.
Blood was still leaking to the floor, he left it there, there was not much point in cleaning it.
A single lock of hair was out of place, his shirt was sweaty, his pants were full of blood.
In front of a real mirror, he fixes himself, a clean shirt, clean pants, belt, a dark suit, he combs his hair and washes his face.
He would not let anyone see him in his former state.
In his office he apreciates the blank empty stare he was not proud of, but he did not regret it.
He stepped on it again, hoping it would still feel some pain, he deserved it.
The device was broken, it broke the first time he stepped over the chest.
He was still bare feeted, he got to his chair behind the destk, he could hear them coming, lighting up a cigarret, he breathed in the smoke and lingering smell of alcohol in the room and the faint trace of powder in his nose.
He accepeted the smoke and his fate, still with anger inside, a calm focused anger, he had accpeted this better than his best friend coming clean of having an affair with his wife.
He checket the gun on his desk, one bullet was missing from the clip, not exactly missing, he knew very well where that bullet was, it was all it had taken, a bullet to end a life of friendship.
Flashes of red and blue.
Her wife had heard the confession, she was on the line while everything was happening, she heard the shot, after the last breath he trashed the glass upon hearing the faint voice of his wife coming from the floor within the pocket of the lump of flesh lying on the floor.
Men in blue knocket dwon the door, thre was no need, he had left it unlocked, just as he had left the body bleeding on the floor in front of his desk.
He saw them in the corridor.
He took the gun.
He shot.
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