Urban Story X

You’re alone.

Passing by the fountain, there’s a silhouette, a small one. It starts to talk. You listen.

-You're going to die. Today.

You can’t assimilate the words right away, they just ring in your brain like a bell, in stereo.

-Listen. Be careful. You're going to die. Today. Believe me.

“Believe me”, the concept roars, like the first thunder your hear in your life, coated by a primal meaning. “The act of trusting someone or something” Complex. Too complex.

-Fuck you.

You're in the floor. Your jeans wet from the moss. You’re alone.

Stepping forward to your destiny, unknown for now, you stumble upon a girl. She's sitting on the floor. You say hello, but no answer except for a cute little retching. You move your eyes a few inches to the right: a huge puddle of puke.

You try to lift the body, but no more success than another little retching and what looks like a smile.

-You okay?- your own phonemes echo in your skull, the [t] and the nasal sound above the others. Why?

The girl nods. The only question left is, what are you doing sitting there? Weren’t you standing?

Inside the pub, you say hello to the bouncer.

-Three euros, compadre.

The short-haired one, in the back, yeah, the one next to the speakers. You light a cigarette leaning on the bar.

-My my, they always play the same music here.

She just took off her jacket and you re-evaluate her tits. Really perfect.

-When does this close?

-In half an hour.

You always wait, always. You were born without a star. You were born defective. Never miss anything. Never.

Everything is ready: the note in the fridge, the extinct cigarette in the ashtray and six bullets.  You sit in a chair and put the .38 revolver right in your neck, with the muzzle resting against your lower jaw. You look slightly upwards, it was a lie that the gun would be cold, no, it’s burning you, and you know the only way it ends is bang.

You shout from the pain after slightly moving away your face from the path of the bullet: you just blow-up half of your face, yet you're still alive. Instinctively you put your free hand in the mess that is now your face, screaming like someone whose leg is being cut without anesthesia. Luckily soon you will be able to point the gun to the side of your head, pressing the trigger again and for the last time.  One of the forensic cops puked after seeing the crime scene, because they had to unglue your bloody face from the floor: You fell forward, pressing your expression of agony against the cold wooden floor.