Everyone will think I fired the gun. I didn’t. I just picked it up when I walked into the room. Why am I even worried about that. Glen’s dead. At least I think he is. There’s a lot of blood. I don’t want to touch him, he’s dead. Has to be. There ain’t no coming back from that. Three shots to the face. I remember that. Three bangs, ringing down the staircase I walked up, like a ghost passing me. The shooter didn’t pass me. Where did he go. There’s no way out of here. It’s a top floor flat, with two rooms. This one and the bathroom. The door was shut as I reached the top of the stairs, I opened the door and found Glen. He didn’t look at me, couldn’t have looked at me. But I heard his last words. From the stairway? Maybe. “I didn’t mean too.” I’m sure he didn’t. He didn’t mean to do much, still did it though didn’t he.
The killer must still be here. He has to be. Glen’s killer has to be in the flat. This isn’t a film, he wouldn’t have climbed out of the window and lowered himself to the street like some kind of ninja assassin. He’s still here. I heard the gunshots, they still ring in my ear as if the bullets are rattling around in my head and not Glen’s. Maybe he’s hiding under the bed, waiting for me to leave and make a hurried escape before the police turn up. Someone else must have heard the shots echo downstairs.
Why did I pick up the gun? I could have just left it on the floor, just inside the flat. Dropped as if the killer burst into nothingness, the opposite of the universe. Everything into nothing, almost like Glen’s mind right now. I should put the gun down now, I can’t hold it forever. It’s going to have my prints all over it, no denying that. They won’t find anyone else’s just mine, smudging the past into oblivion. Anyone else who held it would have been overlapped by me. That’s how fingerprints work, right? I don’t know.
He has to be in the bathroom. I don’t know why I know the killer is a he. He’s not under the bed, not small enough to fit in the wardrobe and would never be able to make it out of the window without dying from the fall. If I can catch them in the bathroom, then I’m in the clear.
I don’t know if the floorboards are moaning because I’m stepping on them, or because they are being force fed Glen’s blood as it seeps into them. Either way, the bathroom door weeps as I push it forward. I fumble around for the light switch with one hand, while holding the gun out with the other. Click. There’s no one in here, just me and the old cracker mirror with dried water spots. Why am I smiling?
I was reading a few really short stories last night online, and wanted to see if I could write one. I read a few tips and one stuck in my mind. Start in the middle. I tried to think of the middle of a story, set a limit of 500 word and wrote the entire thing in about 10 minutes and quickly read through it before uploading it. No real changes to the original draft. Maybe this is something I could try again soon.