I’d forgotten how much it hurts to be shot.
There was a white chateau on the side of the road, and I’d managed to kill the two guards standing outside of it. When I slipped into the building, I heard the clacking rhythm of a typewriter being well-used. I followed the noise to a closed door, and in addition to the typewriter, I could hear a woman speaking, and that of a man as well.
Their conversation revolved around logistics – ammunition that was needed, maps that had to be drawn up, and the various minutia which make the difference between a successful campaign and a failure.
With a Colt in my hand, I took hold of the cut-crystal doorknob and let myself into the room.
The round caught me square in the chest and sent me to my knees.
Still holding the weapon in my hand, I fell to my side and silently cursed myself for a fool.
The wound, for any normal man, was fatal. I had felt the damned bullet enter my heart. Soon enough, the lead would be devoured by my body, but for the next few minutes, I would be at the mercy of the shooter.
I heard the woman laugh, and then one man compliment another, who, in turn, replied that it was simple enough. He had given strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed.
As I lay there, listening to the man brag about his abilities, my body broke apart the bullet, my heart mended itself, and I tightened my grip on my Colt.
The typewriter continued clacking.
The men continued their conversation, with the woman occasionally contributing a comment.
And I stood up.
An officer, seated at a desk, stared at me in horror, while a gentleman to his left froze, unable to move.
The woman, unaware of my resurrection, carried on her work.
And my Colt roared in the confines of the room.
#horror #fear #art
