Vision Of Death
A Novelette Fiction By Vince written in the early eighties
I can’t remember why we were there, but we were and that was all that mattered at this moment in time. Across the table all I saw was his cold, calm face and crossed arms. He looked so easy, so relaxed, although I figured this must be an act as I myself was trying to portray an air of calmness even though deep inside I trembled.
On the table were just three objects. The candle lighting his sinister features, the Magnum and a lethal bronzed bullet, shining in the eerie flickering light. Silent. Deadly.
His hand moved slowly towards the gun and raised it pointing in my direction and with a quick and near professional flick of his wrist released the magazine chamber. His other hand, now in view, picked up the bronzed cartridge and held it tantalisingly upright by the base for what seemed like several seconds.
I could now feel my collectiveness deteriorating as a bead of sweat trickled slowly down my forehead lodging itself neatly in my left eyebrow. His eyes, however, showed no sign of detecting this as he stared singularly at the capsule of death in his left hand. I longed for just one brief moment, just one millisecond of freedom from his icy presence to hide my fears.
Finally he looked up again into my eyes and slid the bullet gently into the cold steel chamber. My eyes couldn’t be taken from that small dark hole, the daunting prospect that next time the chamber was emptying I could be at the receiving end.
He placed the weapon back on the table, this time with it’s carved wooden handle nearest to me. He refolded his arms and cautiously smiled, although this revealed a weakness as I noticed the far corner of his lips quivering nervously. This released a portion of my own anxiety as I relaxed back slightly into the chair. Now it was my move.
I placed my hand gently over the gun’s handle and paused a moment. I had the upper hand now and was determined to make the most of my time. I discounted a smile though to ensure no lip tremble disturbed my lines.
I lifted the Magnum, suddenly realising it was no toy. It’s metallic weight seemed reluctant to allow me to lift it from the table. A strange sense of scalding seemed to burn my palms as I considered it’s deadliness, which made my fingers sticky with sweat. I raised the gun, pointing the barrel at my adversary, my index finger resting gently on the cold trigger. I felt so powerful.
To be continued...
Author: Vince Poynter
Version 5.173 14 Aug 2018
Written in the early eighties
First Published: Version 3.0 in Mar 2010