by David Scott
Of course, this appealed to my cautious sensibilities and I consciously decided not to consider any ulterior motive; it was easier to turn a blind-eye to the possibilities presented by training Easton to use his new weapon.
I also wanted Easton to be happy, as simple as that, and didn’t want my gift to disappoint him in any way. I also knew that we would probably have a fight, if I disagreed, and Easton would do what he wanted in any event. So, I went along with it. I even lined up empty tin cans for the slaughter.
Easton soon became proficient in using the gun and would normally hit every target on his first attempt, naturally talented in destruction.
Easton encouraged me to try and even got me a cheap, second-hand pistol. I really did not want to use it; I had been brought up to understand that guns shouldn’t be touched, and it is hard to fight against vehement nurturing.
However, I put up no resistance when he stood close behind me, touching his front to my back, and put his hands around mine, which were clasping the gun, and forced my finger to pull the trigger.
The explosion was sudden and loud. I pressed-up hard against Easton as it fired. Under Easton’s guiding touch, we hit the target. He laughed out loud over-dramatically and moved away from me to do some ridiculous victory dance. Easton tried to get me to join in, but I felt awkward and embarrassed, so protested until he stopped.
Apparently, that was all the training I needed and I was relieved not to have to do it again; having something so potentially deadly and devastating in my hands felt terrifyingly unnatural and yet surprisingly welcome. I put the safety catch on and wedged the hard, still-warm gun down the back of my jeans, like some old-fashioned cowboy might have done after a showdown.
It was not long after that Easton started to reveal his gun to our terrified victims. The problem was that they gave in straight away, which seemed to prove anti-climactic to Easton, and did not give him the same highs as actually hurting someone. It was all over too easily and too quickly, with no violent consummation to satisfy his blood lust.
I could almost see this disappointment in Easton’s eyes and in his muted response to our hold-ups. More cash was coming in, but this was not making Easton happy. It was obvious to me that Easton would have to take things further and was just looking for an excuse to use his gun.
The opportunity was quickly engineered by Easton. On our next hold-up, of a smart looking young couple, Easton insisted they must have more than the paltry 50 bucks in the lady’s purse.
They both protested for all their worth, sensing Easton’s aggression, but it did not save them. Easton shot through the man’s shoulder; not wanting to kill him, but to see what a bullet could do, and to get the long-awaited thrill.
Shooting an empty tin can is one thing but seeing a bullet rip through human flesh is another; it is surreal, as though you are watching a movie, and not real life.
The blood spurts out everywhere and leaves pools of deep red blood, stains on expensive clothes and splatters across anything in its path; indiscriminately, it will mark people or places.
The worst thing is the look of surprise mixed with horror on the victim’s face when the gun fires. At that time, they see their life flash before their eyes and know this could be the end. That is the look of fear.
After that, Easton seemed to find always a reason or excuse to fire his gun. I would just stand by watching. I wouldn’t shoot anyone myself, but I would join in the spectacle, and otherwise support Easton as much as he needed.
Easton told me that he never spent too long in any one place, especially if he had engaged in too much profitable sport.
He found it difficult to accept his sport was actually violent acts of crime, but he knew all too well that it was too risky to stay in any one area for too long for fear of being caught. At the rate we had been going, we really needed to go soon.
Easton explained that he would normally leave everything behind when moving city. However, he said that he had grown used to me and would like it if I went with him.
I didn’t hesitate to agree. Wherever Easton wanted to go was fine with me, as long as I could go with him.
Of course, I really do not know what Easton felt about me. He never said anything or made any pass at me; we were so very close and yet at the same time distant. I am pretty sure that he knew how I felt about him.
But you never know with these things. It may not have even passed through his mind that another man has romantic feelings about him; what was obvious to me in that situation may not even be a possibility to him and so would not register.
Equally, I am not so naïve as to not recognise that he might have been using me; just another pawn on his chessboard.
Still, I held on to a glimmer of hope that he felt the same. Maybe it was best not to know, as I couldn’t have left him or faced his rejection. There was no possibility that I could tell him, as it could destroy everything. The odds were low and it was a gamble I wouldn’t take.
We decided to up sticks and go straight away. We grabbed some clothes and cash and found a cheap motel. It reminded me of something out of Psycho and I was careful to check for peeping holes behind the tired paintings in our twin room.
The twin was more like a double, with the two beds touching. There was no air conditioning and so the room was sweltering hot.
The room itself could not have been more ordinary, with white walls and brown carpeting, but it felt like some enchanted palace to me; I was about to run away with my handsome prince.
We slept in nothing but pants and flung the blankets to the floor. We both curled up, facing away from one another, back-to-back.
I could feel the heat from Easton’s back warming mine, he was so close. I could imagine his tanned body, the small prisms of sweat, the curve of his spine, the bristle on his neck, his dinosaur shoulder blades, all so close, so near yet forbidden and untouchable.
I kept hoping that something would happen that night, but it didn’t; I lay hot and breathless in unfulfilled anticipation. I was terrified that my expectation was palpable and would be fiercely rejected in a fit of disgusted rage. Of course, this never happened and I eventually drifted off to sleep.
When I awoke I felt more tired than the night before, probably due to being in the middle of some sleep cycle. I felt a chill and saw Easton was gone. I panicked. Easton had left me, had at last got sick of me and moved on. He had lied. I meant nothing to him. Alone and disappointed again.
I was frantic; I jumped up and checked the bathroom. Nothing, he had gone. I went to the window in the motel door and waited.
Easton eventually came in, smiling, with the sun shining behind him, perfectly framing him in the doorway.
He had gone out and bought some coffee and doughnuts. Being his “champ” I ate up as ordered, as we chatted about nothing and everything. Enjoying each other’s company and the anticipation of a new adventure together.
You never appreciate enough the simple pleasures of everyday life. Those ordinary and inconsequential conversations. The light touches of affection. The common sights around you that somehow lost their wonder.
If you knew it was your last day with the person you love most in the world, you would treat each moment as if it were special. And in reality, they are. Today could be your last day.
Learn from my mistake, as I certainly did not treasure enough what would turn out to be our last morning together.
We went to a local store for some essentials. It had very narrow aisles and was over-filled with every kind of item you might possibly want to buy, but probably didn’t need. Buckets and spades hid under shelves of chocolates. Diapers surrounded marshmallows. Energy drinks mixed with liquor.
I was contemplating how someone could actually fit all of this in to such a small space, when I heard Easton shouting. It was the beginning of our end.
Easton had drawn his revolver and was pointing it at “Duncan”, whose name badge not only revealed his name but also that he “was here to help”, the dullard cas
hier.
Duncan was likewise pointing a weapon at Easton. The sweaty, desperate look on Duncan’s face told me that he was going to pull the trigger.
I shouted and pulled out my own gun. I knew what I had to do. It was Easton or the cashier. It wasn’t a choice and instinct just kicked in.
It all happened so quickly. I heard the sound of gun shots. I could not look to see what was happening and focused on my target.
Duncan was on the ground, with a beautiful blood spatter butterfly marking the naked white walls behind him. He lay dead on the floor. His messy blond hair spiked and modernised by blood. Eyes wide open and still, watching but not seeing, like a porcelain doll.
I hadn’t meant to kill him. I just wanted to stop him from hurting Easton. But my amateur aim was guided by some otherworldly treacherous marksman and my murderous bullets claimed their victim.
I felt a boiling hot pain in my shoulder, as though a poker had been taken from a furnace and slowly driven through me. Duncan had shot me. I almost felt pleased for him; at least he had made an impact in his last stand. I fell to the ground.
I called out to Easton, but he didn’t reply. I then realised that he was also on the floor. Duncan had got in two shots.
Watching me with glassy eyes and tears forming, Easton stretched out his hand towards me.
I desperately tried to reach him. When I did, I grasped his hand and held him, as tight as I could, with all of my strength, and told him everything would be alright over and over, as I fought back my pulsing emotions.
I wanted to tell him I loved him and always had, that I was his and couldn’t go on without him, that I would soon be with him, in whatever comes next, but some spiteful embarrassment stopped me.
I had time to leave Easton with my love, but I didn’t and he died. I will regret that forever.
I grabbed the gun, pointed it at my temple and pulled the trigger. No hesitation or doubt. No thought, it was the only thing to do. But the gun did not fire and there was no kind bullet left for me.
It was the end of both of our lives. Every positive emotion I have ever felt suddenly seemed to boil down and condense into an undeniable pain.
The guard shouts over to me. I snap out of some day dream and I am left with the name Easton in my head and a feeling of some sort of passing grand emotion. I try to think why it is there or who Easton is, but I recall nothing. All of my recent thoughts seem to have evaporated into thin air.
I am led from the yard into a small room. It is entirely white. It is quite disconcerting, like the sort of place you might expect to see in some dystopian vision of the future – a spaceship cabin or underwater lodging.
There is little in the room except a table, toilet, bed and small shelf. The Bible and “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” prop each other up on the shelf, preventing each other from falling over.
I reach for the fiction and find comfort in reading my favourite childhood book. A familiar friend I can keep close by to hold on to my sanity.
Later, as dusk approaches, I hear the door unlock and see the young guard, Harry. This can only mean it is dinner, visiting or shower time. In this existence, such basic pleasures become the meaning of life. Any change to sitting alone in that room is an ecstasy.
Lauren must be here. She is the only person who visits me. I don’t remember other visitors or even visits, but I seem to know this. I don’t recall seeing mum and wonder why she hasn’t come to see me. I feel a twinge somewhere beyond my heart.
I always feel certain sadness when I see Lauren now. She looks so much older than the headstrong teenager I recall. The extra lines, the wrinkled and looser skin, uneven skin tones, thinner arms and the comfortable fashion she now likes wearing; the uniform of the aged.
Gone are the hot pants, tight t-shirts, strawberry red lips, peacock eyes and taut youthful skin of little Lauren who attracted all the boys. Now there is just a tired, old woman slowly treading towards her fatal ending.
Only we do not stop at the visitors’ room or the usual wash rooms and, instead, we continue walking. Walking past all of the places I know or recognise.
Harry rests his hand on my back, guiding me slowly and gently onwards.
We stop in a room. I am ordered to take off my top and my hair is wet and lathered. I smell something familiar. It is the scent of the bubble bath I used as a child which filled the air with rainbow bubbles and magic. A little one’s laughter at nothing other than the simple pleasure of warm water being poured on my hair, washing away the stinging soap and leaving me clean.
Only this water is too hot and pains me. I hear a loud buzzing sound right next to my ear and see grey hair floating down to the floor, leaving me bald and cold.
I sense that others are with me, but I see only Harry. The hairs on the back of my arms bristle. My heart quickens. Something is coming.
A man has his hand on my back. I ask what he is doing, but he doesn’t reply and pushes me forward. I resist and he is quickly joined by a man and a woman, also wearing dark uniforms. They hold me.
I resist, it seems the right reaction. Every inch of my being tells me to fight. I yell. I scream. I struggle. I am held in strong arms and taken into a room.
There is a dark wooden chair, with black padding and many ties and binds, cords and buckles. There is a large, rectangular window ahead with a black curtain drawn across it. What is this place?
I look desperately around. It has a clinical feel, but I can’t see any doctors or nurses, only double the number of people in dark uniforms, all looking at me very seriously.
I must have done something very wrong. I don’t know what is happening. What have I done? Where are my mum and Lauren?
My body feels like jelly and I am shivering all over. My knees give in and I have to be lifted up. I cry out for help, but no one answers me. They just talk to one another in formal low tones.
I am placed in the chair and restricted. They bind me tightly and I panic with a sense of claustrophobia, as I cannot move any part of my body.
I wrestle wildly from side to side but nothing gives. The ties remain unforgiving and the chains of my past actions prove unbreakable. My waist is compressed, as though I am wearing a belt two sizes too small. It cuts into me.
No one comes to help me or offers me any words of comfort or explanation.
They place a cold cap on my head. Goosebumps immediately cover my body.
The dark theatre curtain heaves up and I see a familiar face looking down at me. Lauren looks so sad. She presses a hand against the glass window and stares at me, trying to connect. Her eyes haven’t changed and betray a distant sadness and defeat. She drops her head down low and her black hair falls.
A sudden and intense sting surges through my body. They are killing me. I am being electrified. My body spasms uncontrollably. I wet myself and feel incredible shame. I close my eyes to avoid the audience’s stares.
Memories sprint urgently through my mind.
Sticky summers.
Lights dancing on a river.
Tidal waves and toys in the bath.
A burnt hand.
Silly hens and sweet tea.
Wicked wasps swarming for my ice cream.
Maple seeds helicoptering down from the sky.
A smiling, fat, ginger cat.
Staring through a window, waiting for my father.
Rolling around on the floor and crying with laughter with Lauren.
Being held by my mum and hearing her soft songs.
Easton looking into my eyes and smiling.
Easton. I cling on to this thought with all of my might, desperate not to lose him again.
And then a mixture of oranges and reds finally come together and lead me on to a dark amorphous mass, from which a shadowy hand stretches out to me.
I reach out and let go.
Note from David Scott:
Thank you so much for reading my book! It is the first one that I have written and, if you enjoyed it, I would be really grateful if y
ou could leave me a review.
