Bang
Real Quick.
Her heart is shattering its glass cage, with all of the jackrabbit thump-thump action that it's giving out. Glistening beads are forming on the back of her neck and in between her silky, milky-way thighs where the gun rests, safety on. Scarlet blood seeps into her mouth, her pearly canines having ripped into the inside of her cheek. She bounces her left leg up and down, one, two, twenty times, over again, over again. Her knuckles are of a ghostly pallor, slender fingers clasped tightly around the pistol between her legs, so strangling you'd think it was her lifeline.
A warm, callous hand makes its way onto her leg, inching up her denim mini ever-so-slightly and sending a serene wave throughout her body. Her doe eyes flicker up to his big, innocent blues.
"Ready?" His voice is rich a deep, like gold in a glass and melted chocolate over warm bodies. The tiniest of nods from her ellicits a devil's grin on his part. She follows his lead like a copycat, a replica of his figure as they slip their masks over their features, his a Dia de los Muertos sugarskull, hers a glitzy feathered Mardi Gras bird. Climbing out of the car, they take their few baby steps toward freedom and all that glitters.
She is not cut out for this, she can tell you that right now. They are from two distinct molds; his screams for blood and danger, hers sobs for safety and love. Atmosphere does nothing for her nerves, it does not excite her, only leaves her feeling more dread than before.
"It's simple," he assures her, sensing the friction, "We get in, we get out. No one will get hurt."
Just like that, she is confident, though she can barely aim a gun and she is not built for the extreme. She's a delicated, air-puffed meringue of a girl, destined to erode at the first sign of rain. But he says she can do it, nobody will get hurt. She will do this. For him, for them.
Showtime.
Suddenly, it is second nature, and she is no longer a dainty daisy girl. She is all guns a-blazing, fiery spirit, and Southern heat. Screams sound around the bank lobby as she lets a few shots ring out through the ceiling and shunshine pours in through the newly-made holes. She is a fallen angel, fresh from Saint Peter's Gates, with the ethereal light still hanging onto her golden hair for dear life, like a makeshift halo.
No one sees the scared smile behind her mask. They just get onto the floor and start praying to the god of their choosing, hoping that their sins have been washed away and their afterlife will satisfy. God, Allah, Zeus, Thor. Maybe they'll hear the pleas.
One man wants to be a hero, go out in style, doing something heaven-worthy. He can take the little blonde thing, who's shaking so badly you'd swear she was having a personal earthquake. He can take her, no problem.
He charges, she shoots. It's an accident, but he crumples and leaves the earthly realm anyway, a bullet in his heart and tears forming at the corner of her eyes. Crimson is filling his chest, leaking through his off-white button-up. The man is a broken doll, now an angel with his wings.
Her partner returns after the gunshot, the words "Jesus" and "Mary" and "fuck" on his lips. What a mistake, bringing her along and strapping a gun to her. She is no angel, she will cry until she drowns the earth and her own sorry self.
"Time to go." She is a frozen figurine, an ice sculpture of her former glory, so he has to drag her out of the building and shove her into the car. The wheels eat up the pavement, the tires scream as they pull away.
All she can think is that no one was supposed to get hurt.
What a lousy, shattered shell of a promise.
A warm, callous hand makes its way onto her leg, inching up her denim mini ever-so-slightly and sending a serene wave throughout her body. Her doe eyes flicker up to his big, innocent blues.
"Ready?" His voice is rich a deep, like gold in a glass and melted chocolate over warm bodies. The tiniest of nods from her ellicits a devil's grin on his part. She follows his lead like a copycat, a replica of his figure as they slip their masks over their features, his a Dia de los Muertos sugarskull, hers a glitzy feathered Mardi Gras bird. Climbing out of the car, they take their few baby steps toward freedom and all that glitters.
She is not cut out for this, she can tell you that right now. They are from two distinct molds; his screams for blood and danger, hers sobs for safety and love. Atmosphere does nothing for her nerves, it does not excite her, only leaves her feeling more dread than before.
"It's simple," he assures her, sensing the friction, "We get in, we get out. No one will get hurt."
Just like that, she is confident, though she can barely aim a gun and she is not built for the extreme. She's a delicated, air-puffed meringue of a girl, destined to erode at the first sign of rain. But he says she can do it, nobody will get hurt. She will do this. For him, for them.
Showtime.
Suddenly, it is second nature, and she is no longer a dainty daisy girl. She is all guns a-blazing, fiery spirit, and Southern heat. Screams sound around the bank lobby as she lets a few shots ring out through the ceiling and shunshine pours in through the newly-made holes. She is a fallen angel, fresh from Saint Peter's Gates, with the ethereal light still hanging onto her golden hair for dear life, like a makeshift halo.
No one sees the scared smile behind her mask. They just get onto the floor and start praying to the god of their choosing, hoping that their sins have been washed away and their afterlife will satisfy. God, Allah, Zeus, Thor. Maybe they'll hear the pleas.
One man wants to be a hero, go out in style, doing something heaven-worthy. He can take the little blonde thing, who's shaking so badly you'd swear she was having a personal earthquake. He can take her, no problem.
He charges, she shoots. It's an accident, but he crumples and leaves the earthly realm anyway, a bullet in his heart and tears forming at the corner of her eyes. Crimson is filling his chest, leaking through his off-white button-up. The man is a broken doll, now an angel with his wings.
Her partner returns after the gunshot, the words "Jesus" and "Mary" and "fuck" on his lips. What a mistake, bringing her along and strapping a gun to her. She is no angel, she will cry until she drowns the earth and her own sorry self.
"Time to go." She is a frozen figurine, an ice sculpture of her former glory, so he has to drag her out of the building and shove her into the car. The wheels eat up the pavement, the tires scream as they pull away.
All she can think is that no one was supposed to get hurt.
What a lousy, shattered shell of a promise.