weird little original prose thingy

[tigriswolf]

I have no idea what to do with this.  So, I figured I'd toss it out here.

 

            It’s a hop, skip, and a jump from discussion to murder, and he can’t really remember how he got here.

            There’s a good reason, though. He’s sure of that.

 

            There’s blood splattered on the wall. The design looks kind of like Idaho. 

 

            He has gunpowder on his hand, and sweat coating his face. He’s wearing a three-piece suit and a dark blue tie. He can’t remember why he killed the man sprawled on the floor. 

            The gun is still warm. So’s the blood.

 

            He has no identification in the old leather wallet he finds in his pocket, just a twenty that smells like sex.

 

            He’d been talking with the man, he does remember that, discussing… something. Something important, something worth dying over. He disagreed, and he had a gun, and—and—nothing. 

            He pulled the trigger, but he can’t remember why.

           

            On the counter, to the left of the body, there’s a pack of cigarettes. He can’t remember if he smokes or not, but now’s as good a time as any to find out.

 

            There must be a reason. A good one. He doesn’t feel like the kind of guy to kill for fun.

 

            He stares at the body, exhaling smoke and coughing. Not an addict, then. He flicks the cigarette to the floor and stomps it out.

 

            The clock on the wall says straight-up twelve. There are no windows, so he doesn’t know if it means midnight or noon. 

            He is hungry, though. 

 

            He should leave the room, find a way out of the building, escape before anyone discovers the body. Someone will have to come down here—wherever here is—eventually, right? And it’s not like he has a good excuse for the dead guy. Or any excuse, since he still can’t remember.

           

            There’s a gun on the counter, just past the cigarettes. It fits his hand perfectly. Two guns—overkill, much? 

            They clearly work, though. The dead guy’s practically Swiss-cheese.

 

            “Alright,” he says, “I’m outta here.” He salutes the corpse sharply and goes to the door, shoving one gun into the hostler beneath his jacket and keeping the other in his hand.  The door opens silently to a dark flight of stairs going up. 

            He can’t remember how he got here, or where here is, or where these stairs might lead. But that body, the poor bastard he killed, sure hasn’t got any answers, so he heads on up.

 

           

           

Comments

[henchgirl.livejournal.com]

oooh. this should be the beginning of a graphic novel.

[tigriswolf]

Really? Hmm...

[henchgirl.livejournal.com]

yes. definitely.