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Gasoline, Gears and Gun Oil -2-

 
Lost Soul's picture
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He walks up the stone path toward the house, flowers line the walk, up the steps then he stops. The door's broken, the lock and frame shattered by a forceful impact, the man starts, then moves with renewed haste as he begins to shout two names, the voice is distorted, unclear, but the panic is evident.  Moving through the house he check the living room, a still steaming coffee cup sits on the oak end table, the television still on, the kitchen, supper cooking on the stove just starting to burn, he calls the names again, still nothing.  Moving faster through the house he races up the stairs, first a young girls bedroom, its empty, the dresser in disarray as if someone packed in a hurry, the master bedroom he finds the same thing. 


Outside the sounds of sirens, cars moving at speed coming closer....the bang of a door slaming into a wall as it is kicked open...food falls on the stairs... the door opens police swarm into the room.


"Sir put down the gun!" the first officer into the room says keeping his own weapon low.


The man looks at the gun he didn't realize was even in his hand, then back at the officer.


"Sir.  Please put the gun down.  Don't do this sir, think of your wife, your daughter." there's a familarity in the officers voice as if he knows the man, a genuine look concern on his face.


The man looks over at a picture of himself, a woman and a child that hangs on the wall, then to the officers in the doorway and back to the gun, slowly turning the barrel toward his face.

"SIr No!...Jesus Christ!...Someone grab the gun!.."


...........


Zane bolts upright in his bed, the red blanket casts a ruddy crimsen light across the room as it feebly attempts to block out the sun.  He looks down at the pistol in his hand.  He didn't remember taking it out from under the pillow, sneering at it he tosses it down on the foot of the bed as he sits up swinging his legs over the side of the bed.  HIs bare torso covered in a sheen of sweat that almost looks more like blood in the dim red light.


Taking the half smoke sitting in the tin can ashtray on the bed side table, lighting it then taking a long draw, he lets out a long low groan. rubbing a hand across his bald head vigorously as if to scrub away the fading memories of the nightmare. 


With a long sigh he reaches for the half bottle of whiskey on the floor by his boots, he takes several swallows drinking down more than half what was left before getting up and stumbling toward the rooms wash basin.



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