That’s what I thought you’d do, I think to myself as he opens the door. I close my eyes; I don’t want to watch. As the shotgun rings out, I shudder. He’s moaning. Grinding my teeth, I force myself to look. He’s lying on the floor, his face a red smear. His eyeless face is staring at me, all bloody and black with powder burns. I hear his words through his unintelligible groans in the same way I knew he’d open the door. I hear what he wants to say, what he would have said had his mouth been working.
I hated him, but this seems so cruel. I had stood there, begging him not to open the door, knowing he’d have to, have to prove himself, have to throw me aside and open the door. He thought it would be there, and it was. As he grows silent, I step over the corpse to get to the little golden idol. I think of the sacrifices made in ancient times, how this golden trinket was washed in blood to honor some horrible god. Gold is cold to the touch, but it shines in the eye. His face has no eyes.
I replace the idol into my satchel, and as I leave, I turn once more to the dead thing on the floor. The blood is splattered everywhere, and it pools around his head, a crimson halo to a faceless sacrifice. The end, I think. That’s blood on my hands now, and there’s no one else to blame. My mind, I feel it working, quickly thinks up a scheme. Had I already been planning it? Not my shotgun; not my fingerprints. But my motive, and no one else; my deed, and none other’s. I force myself not to think of escape.
No more lies, I tell myself. The idol seems heavy as I walk through the halls of the apartment. So silent, this abandoned place. When will they find the body? When will they know? I take the trolly, and its red paint makes me shiver. Soon the smell of the sea is in my nose, that awful, wonderful odor. I hurry my way onto a dock full of holidayers and children and lovers. I’m pursued by my own demons, and feel a spurring dread cover my body. Elbowing, shoving, swearing, I force my way to the edge of the dock.
My hand is in the satchel, and I feel the coldness against my palm. Grasping the little demon, I pull it into the light. Again, I close my eyes, and lobbing the treasure over my head, I send the trinket out to sea. An old, fat man in an Hawaiian shirt woven with blue patterns asks me what I’ve done. I cry, laughing and crying, and I find there are no words. I look over the vastness of the ocean and see the endless horizon. “I’ve done it,” is all I can say. Meekly, I rejoin the throng of man.
Originals:
https://taletold.wordpress.com/2020/10/28/drabble-series-whats-done/
https://taletold.wordpress.com/2020/10/29/drabble-series-whats-done-2/
https://taletold.wordpress.com/2020/10/30/drabble-series-whats-done-3/
https://taletold.wordpress.com/2020/11/01/drabble-serieswhats-done/
https://taletold.wordpress.com/2020/11/02/drabble-series-whats-done-4/
Tale Told 