Status: Attention: More has been added on to the first chapter (for those of you that are coming back from reading it earlier) Thanks :)
Linger
Chapter 1.
A drop of sweat slid off Brian Manney’s brow and onto the cream carpet below. Brian watched it fall and then took notice of where it had fallen.
Soon that carpet won’t be white anymore, he thought. He was thinking of the crimson that would slowly trickle from his head and spread across the cream in a matter of minutes, like the splatter of spilled wine. He could just imagine the bullet going through his head and him falling, gun in hand, onto that perfect carpet his wife loved so much.
His fantasizing was met by more sweat, on his hand this time, making it hard to hold onto the gun.
Brian was waiting too long.
Suicide was not something that could be thought out and carefully planned unless it was a terrorist act, and this simple bullet-through-the-head plan that Brian was about to carry out was definitely not a terrorist act. This was a spur of the moment situation, as suicide should be.
The silence in the room was cut off by a loud ringing from a corner table next to the couch. It made Brian jump.
He wasn’t expecting a phone call at this hour. Actually, he wasn’t expecting a phone call ever again. He thought about ignoring it, but there was something about the persistent nagging of the ring tone that made him snatch the phone off its cradle and growl into the receiver.
***
The call had confused Brian. It wasn't anyone that he knew, or he didn't think he knew him. It might have been a prank call. Some teenagers messing around. But they had saved his life, nevertheless. Even if he didn't think of it that way, that's what had happened.
The call had been a man with a husky voice. A voice that sounded as if it would belong to a heavy-set man. Not fat, but muscular. Like a bouncer, or someone you would like to have on your side in a bar fight.
What husky-voice had said was confusing. From what Brian had interpreted, he was being hired as a hit-man. And if he wanted to take the job he would have to meet the man in Times Square at 6:00.
***
Brian flung his gun across the room in disgust.
Murder. The word alone scared him.
No, Suicide was a much better fit for him.
Murder, unlike suicide, had to be thought out. Carefully planned and meditated upon until the perfect balance is found so you won't be a suspect. You have to be a mastermind. Not be afraid of gore. And you can't have a conscience.
Murder is much more difficult than suicide.
Brian crossed the room and retrieved his gun. He unloaded it, locked it, and packed it safely away in its dusty, cardboard box. He hadn't had much use for his pistol. Back when he had been obsessed with hunting, he had bought one of every kind of gun in the catalog.
And now he had a use for them.
Soon that carpet won’t be white anymore, he thought. He was thinking of the crimson that would slowly trickle from his head and spread across the cream in a matter of minutes, like the splatter of spilled wine. He could just imagine the bullet going through his head and him falling, gun in hand, onto that perfect carpet his wife loved so much.
His fantasizing was met by more sweat, on his hand this time, making it hard to hold onto the gun.
Brian was waiting too long.
Suicide was not something that could be thought out and carefully planned unless it was a terrorist act, and this simple bullet-through-the-head plan that Brian was about to carry out was definitely not a terrorist act. This was a spur of the moment situation, as suicide should be.
The silence in the room was cut off by a loud ringing from a corner table next to the couch. It made Brian jump.
He wasn’t expecting a phone call at this hour. Actually, he wasn’t expecting a phone call ever again. He thought about ignoring it, but there was something about the persistent nagging of the ring tone that made him snatch the phone off its cradle and growl into the receiver.
***
The call had confused Brian. It wasn't anyone that he knew, or he didn't think he knew him. It might have been a prank call. Some teenagers messing around. But they had saved his life, nevertheless. Even if he didn't think of it that way, that's what had happened.
The call had been a man with a husky voice. A voice that sounded as if it would belong to a heavy-set man. Not fat, but muscular. Like a bouncer, or someone you would like to have on your side in a bar fight.
What husky-voice had said was confusing. From what Brian had interpreted, he was being hired as a hit-man. And if he wanted to take the job he would have to meet the man in Times Square at 6:00.
***
Brian flung his gun across the room in disgust.
Murder. The word alone scared him.
No, Suicide was a much better fit for him.
Murder, unlike suicide, had to be thought out. Carefully planned and meditated upon until the perfect balance is found so you won't be a suspect. You have to be a mastermind. Not be afraid of gore. And you can't have a conscience.
Murder is much more difficult than suicide.
Brian crossed the room and retrieved his gun. He unloaded it, locked it, and packed it safely away in its dusty, cardboard box. He hadn't had much use for his pistol. Back when he had been obsessed with hunting, he had bought one of every kind of gun in the catalog.
And now he had a use for them.