Skipping Stones

If the floor was a great lake, and the Colt Official Police resting in my coat was a flat circular stone, I could take that stone out and skip it across the lake, and surely I would hit _. Cinnamon sits opposite from me at the table. 

“You’ve got to stop playing with stones,” she says. “Your target has a gun.”

I ignore her. What does Cinnamon know about death? I take seven skips worth of steps across the diner to where _ sits. I remove the gun from my coat, pointing it to the back of _’s skull.

I fire.

Their lifeless body falls to the seat, then to the ground. Just like that, they are dead.

So simple.

At least at that moment, it felt so simple. But time is a flat circle, and little did I know that this moment would repeat ceaselessly, within my mind.   

Outside, the city lights blast with the fury of a burning sun. One moment, we were begging the winds and the waters for life. The next, we were burning it all away. With most of the sun blocked out, the crack of dawn feels like the creak of a bedroom door, and I’m peeking through to the world to ask if I’m in trouble. 

“You did it by the book, how would you have known they’d do that? Don’t be too hard on yourself.” 

It’s lunch break. Chatting with co-workers, their sympathy blows through me like the wind. It’s been three weeks already. Within my mind I beg they’d drop it already. What did Cinnamon know about death?

The body has dropped already, first to the seat, and then to the floor. I cock my gun and fire, hitting _ dead centre, straight through the forehead. A deafening ring cuts through my mind, skipping along as the forensics team bags the bodies. Two bodies.

Time is a flat circle, and I’ve really got to stop skipping stones. My target has a gun, and it cuts through the lake, seven skips to reach its target, hitting the back of her skull.

What does Cinnamon know about death?

When a stone skips across a lake and hits its target, it sinks into the deep.

At a time, we were begging the winds and the waters for life. Regardless, life burns like the flame of a raging sun, and goes out, so simple, repeating ceaselessly, within my mind.