Silence perpetuated the corridors as scratches and markings upon walls screeched throughout the room. There, positioned awkwardly laid a young lad. His face showed a calmness so firm it almost always showed a hidden grin. The dim lit room bestowed the serenity of a menace, masked underneath the stubble of his chin. Wicked eyebrows with a sharp nose, perhaps of native descent, set a distinctive face that was never recognized the same throughout the moons. Almost as if he was a new person throughout the sun fall and rises. Nevertheless, if one were to see his face it would always show an appreciation for a life so bizarre, misunderstood by the common mind. However, he had a fascination with riddles so simple, it baffled the person stump. Each night, when moon was highest on the sky, the lad took to street on feet, equipped with a loaded revolver strapped to the inside of his left jacket, ready to be withdrawn at any given chance. However its intent portrayed only as an assurance for the company of the other individual. This, he made apparent whenever the streets led him to the presence of another person. Here he would approach the person and with a flap of the jacket, it was demonstrated without words, there was no escape. Whoever happened to be caught in the midst of this riddler would certainly take part of the event whether they willed it or not. Regardless of the gun holstered, the young lad would reveal another revolver, this time, however, opening the cylinder of the pistol. With a flick of the wrist and the assistance of his index, the cylinder exposed not a single bullet in the chamber of this second pistol. However the lad would nonchalantly equip a single shell and load it into one of the available slots of the cylinder. A swift inclined motion spun the cylinder and with a sudden jerk, snapped it shut with the bullets position unknown to both the lad and the unwilling individual.
The awkward silence was interrupted by the shrill voice of the lad, “May I bother you for a game?” he asked. With a flap of his jacket, the man was reminded of the lad’s second revolver in his holster. In hopes of cooperating with the lad, perhaps avoid receiving a shot, the man sulky nodded in agreement. With notice, the lad aimed the muzzle of the gun at the forehead of the man’s face. The long barrel angled directly above his eyebrows sent a paralyzed moment of panic. From cheek to cheek, the grin on the lads face had a warm-heartedness of some sort, almost as if utter content. The hammer cocked and the lad told the man, “Life is a chance, let us see if you live to see the sun rise.” And with haste, he pulled the trigger. For that initial moment, it could never be known how much time passed by. Sudden bliss of relief and happiness eroded the face of the fortunate man. Without reloading the gun the lad then put the gun to his own head and smiled nice and wide, and without a flinch or hesitation, pulled the trigger. The click echoed in the street. Complete utter silence as both men stood there, alive. The lad then put the gun in his jacket and walked away, leaving only the sound of footsteps fading away into the dorms of night and dark as the man stood at that street bewildered by the ordeal that just occurred.
Some were not always fortunate however, as many reports found bodies on the floor with a bullet hole wound on their forehead. The evidence of the pellet was nowhere to be found at every crime scene. The detectives had different theories, the most famous of them being that perhaps the killer dug out the bullet with a knife or something of the sort. The lad was never caught and all the bodies found were never discovered with a firearm.
It has been heard throughout the silent echoes of a house separated from civilization, the sound of a hammer clicking each night, when the moon neared the peak of sky. The lad was responsible for the click. Always did he roulette the game, testing his chance with luck. However insane he appeared to be, he always lived each day with utmost appreciation, which he shared with those who survived. After all, a story of truth cannot be fabricated without any people to tell the tale of their survival.
© Copyright 2016 Zebadiah. All rights reserved.
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