backhand stories the creative writing blog

Nothing. Darkness. Cold darkness.

From the nothingness light congeals like a snake around a speck above my eyes, a foam of light, almost smoke. Then it rushes towards me, carrying brightness and electric pain.

Light is everywhere, is everything, taking me as blind as before. It crushes by head with pain, and fills my ears with a scream. My throat roars. I feel my hands on my face, their growing strength pushing on my cheeks, my lips and my teeth. My hands are wet.

The light forms meaning, focuses into a street lamp far in the darkness above my head, its yellow harshness raining pain. I feel cold, crashing, total coldness and notice the rest of my body lying before me, folded unconventionally across the street curb, one leg parallel with my back, the other leading almost naturally into the street. The light throws strange shadows across the puddles.

Steps; louder and faster as they move nearer, their softness falling into a harsh clap. I move my leg back to its normal position, slightly under the other, knee bent. It pushes me back up, moves my body almost standing, and I see him, moving back, turning to face me. He is grotesque, his eyes huge and on fire, his mouth a grimace, his tongue touching his bottom lip. His gun moves up to his chest, sucking in smoke, and I explode. The wetness dries on my hands and they drop from my face as my skin pulls together and expels the slug and the pain disappears, replaced by heart pounding shock. I scream.

The gun falls clumsily back into his belt and he closes his coat, slowly walks back away from me. I turn my head and try to ignore and watch him at the same time.

Quietly, I step back into the rest of my life.