No Weapon Necessary
Matt knew he had minutes, maybe seconds, and after that there could be no apologies, no explanations, of which he had plenty – for once. Not even the worst of his enemies could sour his alibi, clever as they were and so adept at poisoning anything he said. Not that he cared about them, or his former friends who had, with such impressive speed, turned their backs and raised their lips in scorn: “No good,” they had said to her. “You can’t forgive him this time.”
Fuck them. Quite simply, fuck them all.
But no, he thought, as he stumbled into what was once his car – but no, he thought, as he stared through the window of his old house – but no, they weren’t the ones who were fucked, were they?
Her silhouette shifted behind the orange light of the window. She appeared to be looking directly at him, but she turned away slowly, blindly even, and disappeared into the light. She couldn’t see him, or didn’t want to. No: such a silly thought. She definitely couldn’t see him. Even after what she thought he did, she wouldn’t be so callous as to leave him like this.
Matt touched his burning chest, feeling that heavy, defective pump choking beneath his skin, thumping out his last seconds. Every breath made it tense up in agony. He imagined little bullets stuck in his veins, each one waiting their turn. Suck, suck the air and send them on their way.
It was almost funny the way it always ended like this. His father, his brother. Both, like him, died in their thirties, both screwed over by “that” gene; no chance to clear their names. A slight tingling in the left wrist. Bit of sickness in the tummy. It didn’t take much, nor did it take long.
Did they all have to go like this? They really weren’t such a bad people.
He stared at the window. The light stared back, chillingly devoid of shadow.
It wasn’t over yet, though. Maybe he’d still get his chance to explain.
Not all his deeds had to end in