A single gunshot rings out, echoing in the emptiness of that single fragile moment. A young man falls down in the stiff snow, next to his mailbox. He remains on his knees to be tall and face the masked man with the hopes of fighting him off. But they are alone on the wintry street.
He clutches the crimson stain spreading across his shoulder while the assailant prepares to fire again, this time straight at his victim’s temple. In the next split second, he twists his fearful body backwards to crawl away. Two bullets leave the chamber and imbed themselves into the back of his legs.
The sound of gun fire has not yet riled anyone inside the small houses. People are used to that noise on these dark streets. The man’s screams grow louder and more desperate, as he calls for friends, family, anyone to save him. His family hears the cries just in time, and the eldest brother fires their own gun after stepping outside to see the armed criminal. He too falls back from the wound, but his pain pales in comparison to that of the young man. Every man in your family rush towards him, lusty for blood, while the women clutter on the porch to watch with fear.
With the strongest breath he could muster while blood floods his lungs, the dying man calls his brother’s name. This word draws them to the reason for their rage, so everyone finally stops everything to rush to his side. His brother drops to his side and grips his head tightly in his hands, lifting it off the pinkish snow. He calls out, trying to say something that will keep his little brother alive. There is vomited blood all over his chest, so much that it is hard to differentiate between the fresh and dried blood. Thick redness gathers at the back of his throat, gurgling and bubbling with each desperate breath. Everyone can see it so clearly as it foams and spills down the trembling lower lip.
It is the end. With a last smile at the loved ones circled around, his head falls back into his brother’s hands and his eyes close. The stern man screams out at the heavens, while others whimper.
“Cut! Cut! That’s a wrap! Good job everyone!”
My ears ring as the director screams into his megaphone. The lights on the set return to normal, and the world seems to change. The cast of people around you slowly steps away and watches with dumb smiles as you stand up and whip the red corn syrup from your face. Everyone shares a few laughs while filing off the set so the crew can return everything to the way it was for the next take. Wiping my running nose with my sleeve, and then my blotchy eyes with the other, I step aside so the others can pass. They are all chattering cheerfully with each other, ignoring me as they head to the snack table. You are the last one to leave the set, and you head straight for me.
“Crying again?” you ask and then plant a quick kiss on my cheek. We both know the answer, so I lean forward and desperately rest my tired head on your shoulder. I gently sway forward, reclining against your body, feeling the warmth from your skin to let me know you are really here. For a moment, neither of us does a thing. There is so much I want to do and say, but I am frozen against you. You understand, you always do, so you let me stand there and inhale the sweet scent woven into the fibers of your shirt. Your arms wrap themselves around the small of my back, drawing us even closer.
“That’s the third time we’ve done that scene and you still can’t stop crying. Why don’t you just not watch? You can rest in the trailer,” you finally say softly after kissing my forehead. My voice feels trapped in my throat , so in response I lift my head and nuzzle against your jaw line. I can feel the soft vibrations of your vocal cords as you laugh, and it gives me strength enough to speak.
“It’s not my fault,” I start, but you laugh at me. Pulling back a little bit, I look you in the eyes. “When we got married you promised no death or sex scenes,” I remind you, but you keep laughing.
“But you don’t have to stand here and watch,” you flick the tip of my nose before continuing. “And we talked about this when I got the script. This movie is a great opportunity, maybe even Oscar nominated. You do want me to get an Oscar, don’t you?” Of course I remember the conversation, and it was with that exact same argument that you won.
“I just don’t want to think about you dying. Haven’t your characters died in every other movie?” I squeeze my husband tightly, feeling the lump in my throat growing.
“Not every movie. There was one…”
“It was a movie about high school football. Of course you didn’t die,” I cut you off, yet we both are smiling.
“Yeah, but at least I kept the other end of the agreement. And, I let you correct the grammar in the script,” you keep teasing me until the director screeches into his megaphone again. He needs everyone to get ready for another take of the death scene. It’s still not right. You give my hand a little squeeze before heading off to have all the fake blood cleaned off and squibs reattached.
~~~I was told to rewrite a short story using a change in the narrator's point of view, so I picked this one.
