Adrift on Whispers

Shock would have offered only a modest description for the feeling that coursed through her veins as the cold steel came to rest on her cheek. It was as though her spine had become a bolt of lightning, setting each nerve on edge. Tremors followed, first in her legs, but the progressing until they had consumed her being. Truthfully, no one could have denied the profound effect such a small action had bestowed. Then again, there is sometimes gravity even in reticence. You see, it was in that moment that this girl became aware that she, with no lack of haste and certainty, would die.

Fear has a peculiar way of stifling cognition. Confronted with the threat of imminent danger, flight is a common response; however, perhaps it is just as common to cower: to be crushed under the weight of implication. So it was for the girl. It wasn't until she heard the unmistakable click of the hammer that she managed to escape the confines of her impulses. As the fog that has clouded her mind began to dissipate, she asked the logical question; “who is my assailant?” She wondered to herself if this question was one she really wanted the answer to. Avoidance would have been simple. In the grip of fear, her eyes had been closed and they could easily have remained so. Death, however, proved far to curious a subject.

Slowly she opened her eyes, allowing them to fall on her grisly counterpart. What she found was beguiling to say the least. Before her stood a figure, framed in black and featureless save its two crimson eyes. The horrific nature of the apparition was, in part, a function of its lack of form. Therein it possessed a macabre eminence that seemed to stifle the very spirit. Even so, its eyes were the greatest source of its influence. They were uncharacteristically large, and as the girl peered into them, she had the distinct feeling that her soul was reflected on their surface. It almost reminded the girl of some sort of some nightmarish fun house trick.

The apparition dragged the barrel delicately across the girls skin, moving upward at with surgical precision. The sound of the cold metal seemed to echo through her cranium. There was very little time, there seemed to be so many questions she should ask of her executioner. Should she try to intervene with reason, or perhaps simply ask why? The thoughts raced through her head in the few moments before the barrel finally reached her temple. All at once without thinking, she spoke. “Who are you?” No sooner has she spoken, there was a deafening blast followed by a blinding white light. In the midst of this, the apparition spoke but one word. “Contrition.”

Thereafter, naught remained but the gun in her hand and her blood on the mirror.