Just Business

An experimental story I wrote from the perspective of two men with no personal pronouns. Click below to read!

Beat. Watch him walk out of the dining room; his dishes are still on the table, his family is still eating.

Beat. Only see him briefly through windows. His pace is quick, nervous. A faint sheen of sweat on his forehead (or is that glare through the lens?)

Beat. He's stridden into a room, but it is dark. He turns on no lights. It is impossible to see him.

Beat. Make sure a round is loaded. Check that the bolt is tight and the safety is off. Maintain breathing and heart rate.

Beat. Open ajna. Search for him among the energy coming from the house. Seal off anahata. Slow heart a little more, steady hand.

Beat. Can't find him with third eye. Too much noise.

Beat. He turns on a desk lamp and searches a drawer for something. A manila folder. He rests it on the desk, open. He starts to read aloud from it into the receiver of a phone.

Beat. Cross is over his head. Line goes through frontal lobe and the phone receiver. Beautiful. Exhale gradually, let finger tense on its own.

Beat.

Beat. Child barges in suddenly. He all but jumps to his feet. Too late to stop. The bullet strikes him in the chest, rather than the head.

Beat. Strangled gasps. Breathing is difficult. Coppery taste. Screaming; it's not his own.

Beat. Wet choking. Foamy gargling. Light swims and dances.

Beat. Light fades to a pinprick. Single choke, then no breath comes.

Beat. Darkness. Muscles spasm, desperate for air.

Beat. Sarah.

Beat.

Silence.