I'm Going To Shoot Somebody Famous
I'm Going To Shoot Somebody Famous
His breathing was shallow and shaky as he stared ahead at the photographs on his wall; his hands itched to reach under the bed for his suitcase, his skin was clammy and cold with stale sweat and tears. His room was dark. The curtains were closed but for a single slit through which light broke in, illuminating the images on the wall opposite. His eyes searched every clipping with a frightened eagerness. Many, many eyes stared back. None of them yet appealed to him. All the while his heart beat ever louder. He could swear that it resounded in his lonely bedsit, his only company for a very long time.
Unable to resist any longer, he snatched the suitcase from beneath himself and unzipped it, the sharp "zzzzhhhhh" noise making his heart beat faster, louder, until he began to feel sick. But he couldn't stop, not today. He'd made a promise to himself, in fact to the world though none of them realised it. Today he would carry it out. He knew today he would have the courage.
Excitedly, but slowly, he opened the suitcase fully. It was full of different types of guns, old revolvers mostly. For this task he'd need something more sophisticated, surely. Picking out a favoured black pistol, he stood up and pressed down on the trigger. 'Click'. It wasn't yet loaded, but the click satisfied something inside him. Not enough, however, and he set about his room, lifting his newspaper and magazine clippings and a black piece of fabric. He found a somewhat clear place to sit on the dingy carpet and placed the gun down carefully. Randomly, he threw the clippings down next to him, a new wave of fear making him shake more than he'd have liked.
Trying to calm his nerves, he took in a large gulp of air and breathed out harshly. He was starting to sweat again, his palms shining in the beam of light that glowed across him. No time to care, not today. Carefully, he took the fabric to his face, covering his eyes. Taking up a thumbtack, his hand hovered over the clippings. Today he would carry out his promise. He would choose someone today. And with a swift arm thrust, he had chosen. He uncovered his eyes and brough the skewered piece of magazine into the light to see who.
He did not smile. He simply rose to a standing position, the gun now in his hand once more. He would load it, he would take it out with him, he would shoot someone tonight. The person he had chosen remained upon the point of the pin, a politician. Someone local, too. Lucky.
The gun was now loaded. All that remained was a waiting game. An hour passed. It was still light outside. The light was red, a blood-red sunset, mocking him, he felt. His dark eyes looked out into the light. Out there was the person he would shoot. Out there, alive for now, was the person he had chosen. Not that this particular person was any different from the others in his clipping collection. He hated all of them. As they all judged and hated him, laughed at him with their false smiles and promises, their eyes feeling into every inch of his mind as they stared from their frames. But not anymore. No-one would dare after tonight.
He was looking down at his pale sweaty hands, one of them clutching the black pistol which glinted crimson in the fading sunset. This would be easy, he kept reminding himself; he had control in this situation. The only situation he had control over. He chose the place, and he was still debating on the time. Looking out into the coming evening, he saw the sun fading ever faster. Still shaking silently where he stood, he decided to take it as a metaphor.
He allowed himself a wry smile. A metaphor indeed, the fading of life, the ebbing of blood. His fear disappearing into the west with the sun. He took another deep breath and held it, almost forgetting to breathe out. Tonight, people would know his name. The world would know his face. For the first time in his life, people would care. He was going to shoot somebody famous. He was going to be infamous.
This last thought gave him the extra courage he needed to walk towards the door, but he walked slowly, savouring each step carefully, deliberately. His breathing was fast again, shallow and angry. His fingertips reached the doorknob. It felt cold, like he felt in his heart, like they all did as they ridiculed him. He thought this would give him that final push, the final reason to leave, to carry out his promise...
His tears were surprisingly warm on his icy cheeks, and still warm as they fell, onto his neck, his chest and hands. He couldn't leave like this. He couldn't go with tears streaming from his eyes, like a child in the playground. With a heavy, shaking sigh, he brought the gun to his face in a sort of gentle caress.
"Someday," he whispered, promising once again, wracked with fear, pain and guilt. "Someday... but not tonight."
Stepping over the discarded bullets on his floor, he approached his suitcase reluctantly and placed the gun carefully in beside the others. He shut the suitcase over and quietly zipped it back up before putting back from where it came. He kept whispering his promise to the world as he cleared his photographs up away from the deepening red light; "Someday, just not tonight". He took the image he had chosen for tonight from its pin and shuffled it back in with the others, safe for now. Tears continued their cascading escape from him, running passively into his mouth or past his chin onto the worn carpet and the moth-eaten bedsheets. Such a coward tonight, he told himself. But he knew he could do it, would have to. He owed it to himself. He had to see these people he hated, no longer accusing, no longer in control of him. He would keep his promise. Someday he'd shoot somebody famous. Someday he'd shoot somebody dead.
Unable to resist any longer, he snatched the suitcase from beneath himself and unzipped it, the sharp "zzzzhhhhh" noise making his heart beat faster, louder, until he began to feel sick. But he couldn't stop, not today. He'd made a promise to himself, in fact to the world though none of them realised it. Today he would carry it out. He knew today he would have the courage.
Excitedly, but slowly, he opened the suitcase fully. It was full of different types of guns, old revolvers mostly. For this task he'd need something more sophisticated, surely. Picking out a favoured black pistol, he stood up and pressed down on the trigger. 'Click'. It wasn't yet loaded, but the click satisfied something inside him. Not enough, however, and he set about his room, lifting his newspaper and magazine clippings and a black piece of fabric. He found a somewhat clear place to sit on the dingy carpet and placed the gun down carefully. Randomly, he threw the clippings down next to him, a new wave of fear making him shake more than he'd have liked.
Trying to calm his nerves, he took in a large gulp of air and breathed out harshly. He was starting to sweat again, his palms shining in the beam of light that glowed across him. No time to care, not today. Carefully, he took the fabric to his face, covering his eyes. Taking up a thumbtack, his hand hovered over the clippings. Today he would carry out his promise. He would choose someone today. And with a swift arm thrust, he had chosen. He uncovered his eyes and brough the skewered piece of magazine into the light to see who.
He did not smile. He simply rose to a standing position, the gun now in his hand once more. He would load it, he would take it out with him, he would shoot someone tonight. The person he had chosen remained upon the point of the pin, a politician. Someone local, too. Lucky.
The gun was now loaded. All that remained was a waiting game. An hour passed. It was still light outside. The light was red, a blood-red sunset, mocking him, he felt. His dark eyes looked out into the light. Out there was the person he would shoot. Out there, alive for now, was the person he had chosen. Not that this particular person was any different from the others in his clipping collection. He hated all of them. As they all judged and hated him, laughed at him with their false smiles and promises, their eyes feeling into every inch of his mind as they stared from their frames. But not anymore. No-one would dare after tonight.
He was looking down at his pale sweaty hands, one of them clutching the black pistol which glinted crimson in the fading sunset. This would be easy, he kept reminding himself; he had control in this situation. The only situation he had control over. He chose the place, and he was still debating on the time. Looking out into the coming evening, he saw the sun fading ever faster. Still shaking silently where he stood, he decided to take it as a metaphor.
He allowed himself a wry smile. A metaphor indeed, the fading of life, the ebbing of blood. His fear disappearing into the west with the sun. He took another deep breath and held it, almost forgetting to breathe out. Tonight, people would know his name. The world would know his face. For the first time in his life, people would care. He was going to shoot somebody famous. He was going to be infamous.
This last thought gave him the extra courage he needed to walk towards the door, but he walked slowly, savouring each step carefully, deliberately. His breathing was fast again, shallow and angry. His fingertips reached the doorknob. It felt cold, like he felt in his heart, like they all did as they ridiculed him. He thought this would give him that final push, the final reason to leave, to carry out his promise...
His tears were surprisingly warm on his icy cheeks, and still warm as they fell, onto his neck, his chest and hands. He couldn't leave like this. He couldn't go with tears streaming from his eyes, like a child in the playground. With a heavy, shaking sigh, he brought the gun to his face in a sort of gentle caress.
"Someday," he whispered, promising once again, wracked with fear, pain and guilt. "Someday... but not tonight."
Stepping over the discarded bullets on his floor, he approached his suitcase reluctantly and placed the gun carefully in beside the others. He shut the suitcase over and quietly zipped it back up before putting back from where it came. He kept whispering his promise to the world as he cleared his photographs up away from the deepening red light; "Someday, just not tonight". He took the image he had chosen for tonight from its pin and shuffled it back in with the others, safe for now. Tears continued their cascading escape from him, running passively into his mouth or past his chin onto the worn carpet and the moth-eaten bedsheets. Such a coward tonight, he told himself. But he knew he could do it, would have to. He owed it to himself. He had to see these people he hated, no longer accusing, no longer in control of him. He would keep his promise. Someday he'd shoot somebody famous. Someday he'd shoot somebody dead.