Isaac

The week had so much in store.


The gun feeling cold in my hands, the metal, slippery. Looking at the winding staircase, the gunman waited. Commands ran through my head, I needed a second guy at my back, the moment played slowly, saw their mouths open, shouting at me to hurry up, to get moving. The weapon just felt heavier, almost slipping from my hands. The gunman, his weapon trained on me, his finger reaching for the trigger, a little more and it would be over.

But where was I?

I wasn't even there. All thatI felt was the emptiness of the moment. Would it be like this, exactly like this if I came to this point? Where would my mind be? Where would my heart lead me? What would it say to me when I needed it most to be steady?

There was a flash, my eyes blinked. I felt the hard impact on my chest, I felt my body fall backwards. I saw myself fall. Dropping down the flights of stairs. Hands flailing, trying to grab anything that came into contact. Was this me? I looked familiar. Settling down at the foot of the staircase, I looked beautifully calm, no more the heavy heaving of my chest as I tried to breathe before. I lay still, quiet, my eyes were closed. The others gathered around me, while others pushed their way up, blasting the stairs, not caring where their rounds fell, just to blast away in anger and desperation. The wall stained slightly from the wound, my body slumped, a still memory. My last thoughts as I looked at myself was.....


...this will always be what I am.

A year or two later, there would be a screen. A man sitting on a chair, holding his head in his hands, as always. An option to start, to end, or just to sit there and enjoy what the menu played. A soft mandolin, a whispering 12 year old girl that sang Ave Maria for me.