The liquid sears my throat with a familiar pain, one half shock and one half temporary numbness. The possibly dirty glass teeters in my fingers. The ice clinks one side and then the other. I added the ice to cut it, but it’s honestly a lie, I like it slightly chilled. The ice wouldn’t be in the mildly toxic liquid long enough to melt.
I take another sip, drawing in a breath as it passes by my throat into the final destination of my pickled innards. I set it on my night stand, and stared at my hand as it shook without it’s occupant.
The blood took too long to wash off. This was too much for me. I told them that it wasn’t my job, I didn’t come to be a reaper, a taker of love. I was no judge, jury… but I am now an executioner. The weight of the Glock in my left hand was heavy but familiar. Something I could rely on, something that was constant.
I made the mistake of closing my eyes and then I saw theirs. The shock, the fear, the confusion frozen on their face. It would stay their until the undertaker waited out the rigor and he was able to work. I burned my clothes along with all the paperwork that was involved in the job. Now, sitting in my white tank top and black underwear I notice one group of red I hadn’t noticed. My shaking hand reaches out to touch it. Whose was it?
The fingers remembered their job and the glass was retrieved and I quickly slid the rest of the liquid down my throat, small shards of ice took the express route down my throat. I put the glass back and my hand went back to the spot. A sigh left my mouth, as their screams played through my head like the world’s most terrifying concert.
I wanted to be a hero. I wanted to make a difference in the world. But all that was left was an empty apartment, an empty bottle of Jameson’s Gold Reserve, and a full magazine.
The Glock was heavier now. So heavy. The cold metal pressed against my temple. The tears fell onto my tank top. No one would miss the executioner but they might have missed a hero.
The neighbor jumped at the noise. She looked outside and saw an old truck pass by. She shook her head and wished people would take better care of their vehicles. She went back to watching Jeopardy.
“It Burns” by Rio Martin
#depression #death #writing