Twelve Shots

There were twelve shots before I died. Flashed before my eyes as if the shutter were opening then and there. Twelve shots for the price of one. In the end that was all it was. You only have one shot and I had it. I could say they would haunt me for the rest of my life, but that would be ironic. Although they took away the shock of the action - a gun fired out of the blue into the base of my spine - they left me with a feeling of regret, deeper than any pain could be felt; the feeling that I had finally lost and there would never be another chance.

The soft down of a puppy rests alone and large eyed in the centre of a rug. It has been playing and has the beginnings of looking tired. The rug is technicolour, a reminder of decades passed, but the walls are contemporary, perhaps just ahead of their time.
In a brown leather jacket I rest on a fence post that would be more at home by a country stile than a garden gate in the city centre. A tiny garden that was never really welcomed into the smog of the city. I look tired; worn and weary after a long day at someone’s office. I never quite fitted in, the brown jacket jarring with the shine of patent shoes.
A sunset shows the most beautiful picture I ever took. Although the lens is dirty and my finger is in the corner the shot is immaculate. Gold and red and blue mix in the sky and it is aflame, bursting with energy and potential. Somewhere in the distance I hear you calling me back from the edge.
Friends, smiling and smoking cigarettes in my pokey city house. We drink from cans, not glasses and the butts are left to soak into the remaining beer to be tried again in a few hours with a splutter and a cough. We all had nicknames then: Moon, Shakey, Leaner and me. Seemed odd when someone called me by my proper name.
More friends. This time not so happy. In dark shirts we all stand at a graveside trying to look on the bright side of life. He would have wanted us to be happy for him, but we can’t quite do it. The raining is pouring on our half concealed hip flasks and our fags are getting wet. There is a small boy with us, looking over his shoulder at some imaginary escape route; he had no way out.
There is a black shot in the middle of all the images. It is not entirely dark, a fire is burning bright in the centre. Everything else is blacked out by the illumination of the flames.
A shot that I hate. A shot of you. Glamourous in red, but without your shoes, you are smiling at the camera as if you have a dirty secret. You hair is long and a cigarette is slipping from its holder onto the carpet. There’ll be a fire if it drops. I cannot look at your face, I focus on your feet; glossy red toenails appear to wiggle at me as they skip down the grass. I cannot look at you.
I tried to be artistic once and here is one of my shots. A peacock blue flower sits in the centre of a large pile of ash. The beauty takes over the dirt. But now it seems more like the other way round, ugliness is bringing destruction.
My first photo is of a balding baby, wrinkled face and stained babygrow. There are no arms holding me, I rest in a crib all alone. My fists are clenched and I scream at the life I have been pushed into.
Snow on the ground as I push the car onto the road. I have shovelled all morning and I am red in the face, shining with the bitter cold. The car is green, to match the grass I never see. I can see people looking out their windows at me as if I am crazy. They don’t know that if I don’t see you I will die anyway. Who took the picture I’m not sure. Perhaps it is not a picture after all.
School photos are always the worst. Grinning like a toothless hag I have strightened my tie and cleaned up my face to uphold the illusion that school is a nice place to be. A place where you get homework and they give you books to read; not punches from the boys and cracks round the head from the teachers. The uniform was blue. My brown eyes never suited it, but it wasn’t enough to put me in a school where I really belonged. There would never be enough until it was too late.
The last image is almost too fast to see, but it seems to be something I have never seen before. A disinfected place of green walls and people with masks. I hear beeping and shouting, the light are flashing red red red. I am lifted and I think this is it, the last shot I will see, as I hear the words, “Clear!”

Virus

It was spreading, there was no doubt about that.

The clouds were coming in from the east; whatever the fuck that meant. I only knew it was the east because I had watched the sun come up that morning, sitting in exactly the same position I was in now. Although it was late afternoon I was still sitting there. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that it was getting worse. Like a virus the feeling was spreading through me, undeniable, like immersing yourself in a luke warm bath, it was encompassing me until only my nose was above the surface. Bloody hell.

I knew I had to do something about it. I had to get up out of this chair and open the front door. Not so hard really. Except the front door was a million miles away and someone had stuck shit in the key hole. It was about as appealing as a black eye. I’d had a few of those in my time too. But none would be worse than having to face the truth that waited for me behind the front door. I knew she was home, I had heard her voice calling for me as she tottered across the hall, expectant, waiting for the good news.

There wasn’t any good news. There never would be now. The last train had left the station. Elvis had left the building. Oh crap, how was I going to tell her? ‘Hi honey, sorry I’m late, spent the day in the back garden thinking about what a fuck up I am.’ She would smile and nudge me playfully, saying how much she loved me, just the way I was. Bollocks.

My arse felt like a dead weight, but the weight was comforting. A day of vacancy had not given me closure, just a desperate sense of failure and despair. It was final. The last refusal I would ever take for the bloody team. Anger boiled. An anger I had supressed while I was alone bubbled to the surface as I thought of having to face the final humiliation. My fists clenched, my nails digging into my soft, uncalloused palms. As I hit the fence I realised the anger had propelled me out of the garden chair into pacing like a caged tiger. I shook out my fist; that bloody hurt. Throbbing and stumbling my dead legs paced faster and faster. My breathing had become short and irratic and I began to feel the effect in my brain. Had to sit down again.

I surveyed the house that was so nearly hers. Just four walls made of brick. Who got attached to a house anyway? Who bloody well cared? I was building myself up; distancing myself from all that I held familiar in an attempt to stop the hurt from penetrating too deep. I couldn’t give a fuck about the new sofa or the fridge freezer it had taken so long to save up for. I couldn’t give a fuck about the four wheel drive ready to pounce into action on the drive. Christ, I didn’t even give a fuck about her with her patronising manner and oh so perfect composure. What did I have to lose anyway? Absolutely nothing. Nothing I wanted that was for sure. I rose, slowly this time and headed round the side of the house. The wind was picking up.

“I got a virus.” I said as I stepped into the flourescent light of the kitchen.
“What on earth do you mean dear? They gave you some kind of promotion? That’s wonderful dear! You are such a fabulous author, but you know that, of course. We should celebrate! Look I can save this for another day, shall we go out for dinner? We can have champagne at De Rito’s! I’ll get myself ready!” She pranced around the room, oblivious to the true meaning of my words. I hung my head. What could I do? Her illusion was appealing, but my sense of failure didn’t have the energy to go along with it.
“Lilly, will you pack it in? For fuck’s sake! No bloody champagne! Did you hear what I said?”
“What dear? No champagne? Why ever not? You always were modest. Come on, live a little!”
I turned and stepped into the doorway. I couldn’t face a failure that refused to be heard. I would have to live with that on my own.
“I’m tired. I’m going to lay down for a while. Don’t come up.”
Walking away I could feel the virus creep up over my nose. For a moment it felt warm. Peaceful. But then I was drowning. My throat tightened as I struggled for air, my knees buckled and the room went black. Swimming and spinning I clutched at the wall, pulling objects over in a desperate attempt to stay vertical. It was no good.

Failure finally took over. An all encompassing darkness that never quite eased the pain, it simply prolonged it. Who knows how long I have been here. I wonder, did the rain come from the east? Fuck it.