The spinning gun careening toward the snapshot, the frame teetering, toppling over with a flat, cracking sound that had left a splinter in the glass at the bottom right corner. Santo’s eyes shifted back and forth as he recounted each cause and effect in an attempt to rationalize how the frame could have come to be propped in front of him now, as if none of that had happened.
Santo shook his
head in silent denial. Looking like the cop he’d been for the last twelve
years, he narrowed his dark eyes and searched the room.
You know who I am.
You invited me here.
The human’s fear
simmered to an erotic terror. He gave the gun in his hand a desperate look,
took another drink, and shoved the muzzle in his mouth. The cruel click of the
pulled trigger taunted him, as impotent as the dry tears.
He savored Santo’s
anguish. Few humans really desired death when they courted it in this manner.
This one did, yet Santo felt he deserved the torture of the game he played. He
owned a half-dozen guns that would have done the job quicker, but he endured
the punishment of each deadly click. The torment of forcing himself to do it
again and again.
The reaper knew
Santo would keep pulling that trigger until the job was done. At 12:10 a.m., a
clean shot would blow away the back of his skull and kill him instantly.
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1 comment:
Oh my gosh! The suspense!
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