Bringing a gun into a house changes it.
Atoms shift and reconfigure to make space
for this alien instrument
and what it might wreak.
It’s not the way, she pleads.
Violence begets violence
and can’t be undone.
Pushed back by forceful hands,
she quakes in the corner,
bible clutched to heart.
He sits rigid, jaw clenched, hairs on end,
the weight of duty in his lap,
staring down the hall towards the door.
The drip, drip, drip of the tap jars,
its rhythm disconcerting, out of sync
with that of the ticking clock.
Ears prick: the purr of an engine, idling.
A soft step.
A mutter and shuffle.
An unholy heaviness as the gun is raised.
Sweat dampens the stock.
Squinting eye follows the line of the trembling barrel.
Door knob, dulled by time, turns.
Time slows to freeze-frame.
Wait … wait.
The silhouette in the doorway
backlit by headlights
cries and falls as the bullet enters flesh.
Die you bastard!
Got what was coming.
You’ll torment us no more.
That birthmark on the hand –
surely not? Surely not!
A guttural wail begins, builds and bounces off every surface.
Atoms shift and reconfigure to make space.
- This reply was modified 2 years, 2 months ago by GippsGirl.