Original Fiction
The sky was dark and harsh, the black clouds of a thunderstorm hanging on the horizon. City lights were the only thing that illuminated the streets; few people were out this night. In the worst part of the city, iridescent puddles of the earlier rain and oil sat in the streets, reflecting the baleful skies. In one of the many alleyways on that side of the city, a woman sat in one of those puddles, not minding or noticing the clinging wetness. Her hair hung in tangles around her face, her clothes were torn and muddied. She took no notice of this either. In her hands she held a small pistol; it was not hers. She unloaded the pistol slowly, removing the three bullets that remained. Then she loaded it again, snapping the chamber shut with a flick of the wrist. She then started the process all over again. Her fingers did
this of their own accord, for her mind was far away from this dingy
alleyway. It was many, many miles away, in a different city, in an apartment
she had once called home. Two months ago... They had been going steady for a time when she could no longer afford to pay her rent. Her company had downsized and she was one of the ones laid off. Her boyfriend, gentleman that he had seemed, offered her to live with him. She accepted. From the first she had noticed something was wrong. He often came home drunk, and would seclude himself in his bedroom till morning. When he came out, he was the same man he had been before, kind and caring. Then the horror began. She came home from the unemployment office one day, still unsuccessfully looking for a job. His apartment was dark; all the lights save one were off and the shades had been drawn. He sat upon the sofa with his eyes closed. She asked him what was wrong. He opened his eyes and tried to focus on her. The whites of those eyes were badly bloodshot. He stood up and walked unsteadily toward her, and she cringed back against the wall, unsure of him for once. His breath smelled heavily of alcohol as he stood over her. Again she asked, albeit timidly, what was wrong. He sneered. He told her that she was what was wrong. That she lived off of him, sucking his money away like a leech. Why, she must have been spending it all while she was out. She denied it. He slapped her. He slapped her, calling her names and accusing her of numerous things in a loud, slurred voice. Then he stumbled into his room. Morning arrived, and he came out of his room and apologized. He apologized so profusely that he was on the verge of tears. He blamed his actions on the alcohol, on the events at work, on anything that came to mind, it seemed. He didn't want to lose her, and he promised never to do it again. So she stayed. Besides, he would keep his promise. Wouldn't he? The next day it happened again. The beatings became a regular thing for her. He would come home drunk, beat her, lock himself in his room, and in the morning come out, apologize and promise never to do it again. She could have left him easily; nothing tied her to the man other than his promises and the belief that she could help him change. Yet deep inside she knew it would never stop. She thought that the beatings were the worst thing he could do to her. He often hit very hard, but the bruises rarely ever showed. Then he came home with a gun. He had gotten it at a pawn shop apparently; he had boasted that it cost next to nothing. He did nothing to her that night, though. The next day he came home more intoxicated than she had ever seen him; he could hardly keep his feet. He swore and threatened her as soon as he came through the door. He accused her of outrageous things, then drew the gun on her. She honestly believed he was aiming to kill when he fired the bullet. For once his addiction saved her; the bullet missed. He swore, dropped the gun, and disappeared into the bedroom. Even though she had just had the fright of her life, the silver pistol on the floor drew her attention. She plucked it off the floor and hid it somewhere only she could find it. Then she slept. The owner of the apartment complex approached her the following day after her abuser left for work. He told her that several others had heard a gunshot, and did she know anything about it? She was tempted to tell him, but something held her back, something made her say no. Why, she could not tell. He came home that night, drunk off his feet as usual, and began the normal verbal harassment. Only this time, something snapped. Something that had held firm against the abuse he had rained down on her. Perhaps the something that had kept her from telling anyone her hurts. She took
the gun from its hiding place and shot him point blank. It took several
moments for her to realize what had happened. Then she fled. When her
panic left, a depression set in. She knew she couldn't go back; she
would be arrested for murder. She knew she couldn't run and hide, for
she didn't know how to live on the streets. Even with a gun. A scraping sound in the shadows behind the woman startled her. She turned in fear. Without her conscious decision, her arms pointed the gun and her finger pulled the trigger. Once, then twice. The ringing echoes bounced back at her. Out of the shadows scuttled a rat. She relaxed and lowered the gun. A rat. It was only a rat. The fear left, and again the depression filled her thoughts like a blanket of black snow covering the earth. A drop of water suddenly glistened on the pistol, and she looked up. The rain began falling softly, touching her face like angels kisses. She looked down at the gun in her hands. I have no one to go to, she thought sadly. No one to care. Alone... She opened the chamber of the pistol and dumped its contents into her hand. There were five bullets, she thought absently. He fired one and I fired three. That's four. There's one bullet left. One
bullet...
~end
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