Slow Motion

"Just give meh the money, man, and no one gets hurt." I, Oliver Sykes, stood in a vacant lot, my quivering hands grasping a gun, glinting in the lonely light of the street lamp.

The said gun was pointed at a man lying of the ground, soaked in water and dirt. To call him a man, though, would be an exaggeration. He was one or two years younger then me, probably 16.

He just shook his head. "I said," repeating myself, starting to get upset. "Give meh that money!" Tears of both fear and rage emerged in my eyes. Though I tried my best to hold them back, a few managed to escape.

I stepped closer to the kid on the ground, hand on the trigger.

"I don't have it alright!" He shook in violent and pathetic fits; his eyes bulged from his head. I tightened my grip on the weapon.

"Sorry, mate." My hand shook more and more as I braced myself.

I finally did it; I did. Inhaling, now holding the gun with only one hand. I aimed the gun directly at my victims chest and firmly pulled back the trigger. A loud crack filled the air.

I didn't even look away. In that time frame, while that bullet was traveling through the air, time seemed to slow. Did I really need to kill this kid? No. In fact, I sort of didn't even mean it. I would, should, take it all back.

But I also saw the beauty of the situation. One person taking advantage of another. The bullet seemed to glide silently through the air, almost gracefully. It landed right where I wanted; in his heart.

His flesh exploded. I don't know if that actually happened, but through my eyes it did. Bits of skin and blood danced in the air, almost tauntingly.

Then, all of a sudden, it all flashed before my eyes. Not in an "I'm dying" sort of flash back. More like, the first time I saw it, it was a playback. Now, seeing it for a second time, everything normal speed; maybe even faster.

In that second a century passed. I lay on the chilly pavement; unaware of how I got there. I shut my eyes and took in what had just happened. My hand fished around in my pocket. I pulled out a joint and my phone. I flipped open the phone, dialing Kylie's number. I balanced it between my shoulder and ear, waiting for her to pick up, as I lit my joint.

"It's me. I'm not here. I have a life. Get over it"

"Oi! Hey, Kylie. I did it. Man you shoulda seen it. His flesh explode. Anyways, gimme a ring or somethin' love."

I closed my phone and slid it back into my pocket; taking in a deep breath of pot. I closed my eyes, feeling my head buzz from the drug and let the adrenaline of what I had just done rush through my body.

I lay there for hours. My joint eventually went out, but I was too high to bother with lighting it. Although, there in the parking lot, reminiscing on all the times I had spent in this very lot, getting off with Curtis, a single realization came to me.

I sat up and looked at the manged body lying across from me.

That boy, there. His mother. I cocked my head to the side, trying to lift the fog that seemed to be wrapping enveloping my head. Was it? No, no, it couldn't be.

I got up and walked over to him. "Poor chap," I mumbled to myself as I tried to get a better look at his face.

"Fuck." I threw picked my gun up off the ground and took off. I got the hell out of there.

Once I was far enough away from the lot of pulled my phone out again and dialed Kylie again.

"Pick up, pick up." I bounced from one foot to the other with impatience.

"Ello?" a voice said on the other line.

"Thank god. Where the fuck have you been, love? Did you get me otha' message?"

"No, why." Kylie laughed to herself, "what's got you in knots?"

"You know Ms. Jones, meh old English teacher?"

"Yeah. . " Kylie replied, starting to get a bit worried.

"I think I just shot her son."