by C.T. Millis
Chapter 6
If Vincent were to paint the sky that day, he thought, he would add a little spot of red paint to the pale blue. It would only have been accurate. Or, accuracy magnified, which is what he believed to be reality.
The grass in the field he was crushing beneath the thinning brown leather of his shoes was burnt a golden color by the summer sun. An orchestra of mating bugs buzzed in the distance and he felt like the only human being in the world surrounded by infinite life.
When he knelt down the dirt was moist, he could feel it through the knees of his pants. With his left palm, he knit his hand under the weeds of the field and felt the cold life of the earth. His right hand held a gun. Usually he would avoid guns- knowing what he was capable of, but he was no longer afraid of very many things. Kneeling down, the grass reached to his shoulders and a gentle breeze caused a brave strand to caress his bare neck.
His eyebrows fretted together. He pulled his left hand from the earth and dragged it across his forehead to remove some sweat that collected over his pink skin.
Days like that one always made Vincent think about the winter when the blue sky was covered with grey clouds, the wind forced itself into every being, and a dusting of snow covered the fields- even the field he kneeled in. Not many months before, the ground he knelt on was covered with snow. Soon the snow would begin again. The ocean was west of there; the ocean was east of there. He was born with its tides, and a thousand years after he was dead- its waves would crash on the shore. A thousand years after.
His stomach rumbled. Not from hunger. He was digesting a meal of hard bread rolls and cheese. In the distance he could see a skirting of trees with a few maverick pioneer trees establishing themselves sparsely in the field. The leaves from the trees caught every gentle wind and glimmered like emeralds in the summer sun. The silhouette of a bird fluttered up from the immense thick of the trees that dared to grow for what seemed to be eternity.
Vincent watched the bird drift up and over the trees and he himself lifted his right arm and put it to the bare of his chest which was exposed by a few undone buttons.
He took in a lone breath and let it go. His hands were steady. His heart beat firm, but not out of fear. He was no longer afraid of many things.
The force of the shot pushed his hand away from him and caused him to drop his gun. His entire body was pushed back and he laid facing zenith with his legs to the side. He pulled his legs straight with some of his shuddering strength.
Vincent felt less and less gravity. He began to ask for it with the pleading grace of a hungry child. Gravity. Only could hear himself, to anyone else his words were now mere mutters and moans of pain.
So, on that day a field that was once covered with snow and would be covered with snow again absorbed a great deal of blood.
