- Books, Literature, and Writing»
- Books & Novels»
- Science Fiction & Fantasy Books
A murder (extract from "The notebook")
On that autumnally rainy, drippingly wet December Saturday, at the beginning of the freezing winter cold, that, so unexpectedly, almost like a hurricane fell over the city and shrouded it in a thick veil of haze, smog, rain and hail, a figure 1.80 m large, slowly, with shuffling step, in elegant, completely sodden brown leather shoes, that for certain, so I thought, must have cost a fortune, a black coat, leaning on a cane, upon closer inspection, a man, approached hundred seventy Great Portland Avenue. He took out a pocket watch and looked curiously, it seemed, at the dial muttering softly to himself. But still, he was anything, but curious. I shall not mention his name In my notes, as my greatest fear is, that, me losing this notebook would revert any prior changes made by me on this timeline. Now fearlessly he stood in front of me. A cold blooded killer.
Through the slowly commencing storm, the wind, the rain splashing loudly on the tarmac and my windowsill, I heard loud and clear the relentless ticking of my brand new TagHeuer watch, as loud as I have never ever heard it before. Changing one’s destiny is a huge piece of work, I thought, while tightening my grip. Would justice be restored? My lust for retribution satisfied? Torn I thought, my brows furrowed. Like trying to avoid a nasty fly from sitting on my forehead, I tried to expel those memories and thoughts, concentrating only one thing, my gun. I made up my mind long ago.
I saw the red dot dancing on his coat, however, he himself was in the dark about what was expecting him. Lost he stared into my direction. His face remained hidden in the shadows. Only the brief flash of his eyes in the lamplight made me aware; he knew. Yes, it was so obvious, he was literally staring at me. Further, even. He looked me through my riflescope, piercingly, right deep into my eyes.
At the thought that he had seen me already then, an icy shiver ran down my spine. This would have had consequences, serious consequences. My main concern, not to trigger a “future change”, was the first, previously unknown feeling that I could not suppress, almost equal to a primal instinct, a protective mechanism of some sort. Never I have ever changed the future to my favour. Now, I thought, I knew, why it was forbidden to do so. If he had seen me, I had to act fast. I would forget and I never remember him again. He would be gone forever, me too though, as if neither one of us had ever existed. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. What now? Everything had to happen quickly, every action, every thought, none of these brief moments could be wasted, too expensive was the price I had paid for my stay here. I held my breath. Only the enemy, in the projectile, I heard my heartbeat slowing down gently. My trusty sniper rifle, an OCB-96, although old, noisy and bulky, yet compact for use lay quietly in my sweaty hand.
Eagerly looking at his beautifully crafted pocket watch and then back up to heaven he glanced almost admonishing in my direction. Reluctantly I writhed my finger. A loud bang followed. Thirty seconds and his death was certain. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven, twenty-six ...
The wooden clock next to the dresser and the messy abandoned bed, struck midnight. Nothingness enveloped me slowly, quietly, insidiously. It seemed as if he had not realized that he had just been shot. The poison acts slowly. First, the bullet pierces his lungs like butter, then the sleeve bursts and the small chamber with potassium cyanide breaks. His lungs and surrounding tissue burn. A cruel death. Suitable for a traitor.
Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three ... His chain watch flew to the ground, broken in hundreds and hundreds of pieces. In the cold shimmering light of the surrounding lanterns thousands of splinters lie on the tarmac. Twenty-two, twenty-one, twenty, nineteen, eighteen ... Scarlet wetted the dial, no longer protected by glass, of this fine piece of Swiss watchmaking. His cane angled and fell to the ground. Still looking into my direction, he went to his knees. No cry, not even one of amazement broke through the pouring rain.
While an incessant deafening hum settled over me, blurred colors, contours, noise in a vortex of nothingness evolved around me. The dusty, old clock, of which I thought that its glorious days had passed, next to the wooden renaissance commode, shrouding me in a desert of oblivion.
by Peter Breier