Challenge accepted - Dom
Jul. 14th, 2012 12:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
talumin“One.”
The air is cold on his face, biting his lips and nose. His eyes stare ahead, fixed on the tree line but not seeing. He takes a step. His boots brush the dew from the blades of grass as they pass. The sky above is grey, with no hint of the sun daring to break through.
“Two.”
There is frost on the apples. That should matter, but he cannot summon the energy to reason why. He can see his breath floating on the air before him, wispy puffs that vanish almost immediately. The air feels like he could break pieces off in his fingers, a crispness that borders on brittle.
“Three.”
In the distance, a bird begins to call. It is followed by a response. It's hard for him to notice them over the sound of his breathing, quickening with each step. He takes another.
“Four.”
The voice is coming from further away now. It carries easily over the space, breaking the crisp air. His breath comes faster, quick gasps drawn in through his nose. His chest hurts, sharp pangs piercing with each inhalation.
“Five.”
His throat feels tight, his mouth as dry as a tomb. His legs quiver on the next step and it is only through an effort of will that he keeps from sinking to the ground.
“Six.”
The wooden handle of the pistol is smooth against his palm. It wavers as he tries to keep it upright, the muzzle pointed at the overcast sky. His shoulders are tense, taut as a stretched line.
“Seven.”
Nothing else seems to exist before that voice. It is inexorably drawing closer to the point where it will speak no more, and he desperately wishes there was some way that he could make it end, some option that would allow him to escape the inevitable.
“Eight.”
There was no way out. He can't even remember how he got here. Whatever the reason that had caused him to get into this situation, it cannot have been important. Had there been something about a woman? Or was it a letter? He could not focus. Another step.
“Nine.
No way out. A sheen of sweat breaks out on his brow. A small sound escapes his mouth, part gasp, part whimper.
“Ten.”
No turning back. He stops. No more steps. No escape.
“Gentlemen. Turn.”
His body turns without any prompting from his mind, drawn back towards the voice like a lure on a fishing line. His eyes scan over the meadow, seeing without registering the cluster of well-dressed people standing beneath a sweeping elm tree. Another man is standing a little apart from them, but he does not seem to see him either. In the distance there is a figure, just a blotch of maroon and flesh, really. He blinks his suddenly watering eyes, clearing them and the blotch swims into focus. Another man, standing twenty paces away. Twenty paces - that seemed so far a moment ago, now seems barely an arm's length away.
The man standing apart from the group raises his hand towards him.
“Good sir, you shall have the first shot.”
He thinks his heart stopped at those words, but it has started again, fluttering beneath his breast. Fingers trembling, the muscles in his hand tight, he lifts the heavy pistol. Has the handle been this slippery the whole time? How has he not dropped it in that infinite walk to this point?
His arm straightens, the pistol pointing at the man on the other side of the field. He sights down the length of the barrel. It sways back and forth and he blinks again, his eyes focussing.
The moment drags on for a breath, and then another. The pistol will not stop moving. He knows he will only get one chance, one shot. If he does not succeed this time, he knows in his churning belly that he will not get another try.
And then, with a deep inhalation of breath, the muzzle stops moving. It is fixed directly over the other man. He breathes out, squeezing the trigger tightly, the metal biting into his finger.
A deafening crack, and a jolt in his arm. A flurry of wings as every bird in the woods takes flight.
He flinches back, momentarily stunned. There is a cloud of smoke dissipating in front of him. His heart leaps. The smoke clears and it is as though a lead weight has fallen into his belly. The other man is still standing. The other man is not hunched over. The other man is watching him with no discernible expression.
He tries to say something but no noise will come out. They are all looking at him. They all know. He knows. Everyone knows what will come next. Swallowing, he lowers the pistol and turns his body to the side. He does not look at the other man. There is movement in his peripheral vision; the other man raising his pistol.
He can feel nothing. His eyes are wide as they stare off into the distance. His breathing comes quickly, short, sharp pants that whistle and catch in his throat in the cold air. His stomach clenches, his muscles tightening over his entire body, seizing up completely. He could not move if he wished to. It makes his body quiver and then it is wracked by a sob. He squeezes his eyes shut against the tears.
It lasts an eternity and is gone all too briefly. He feels like he is being swept away by a strong current, and wishes he could reach out and grasp the passing seconds as though they branches to latch onto and hold him in place. He draws in a deep breath and the eternally short moment is gone.
There is a loud crack followed by a horrible whistling. There is burning through his neck, but the grass is wet and cool against his cheek. He doesn't remember lying down. His stomach has ceased churning. His eyes stay fixed on the trees as his breath staggers, and then stops.
The air is cold on his face, biting his lips and nose. His eyes stare ahead, fixed on the tree line but not seeing. He takes a step. His boots brush the dew from the blades of grass as they pass. The sky above is grey, with no hint of the sun daring to break through.
“Two.”
There is frost on the apples. That should matter, but he cannot summon the energy to reason why. He can see his breath floating on the air before him, wispy puffs that vanish almost immediately. The air feels like he could break pieces off in his fingers, a crispness that borders on brittle.
“Three.”
In the distance, a bird begins to call. It is followed by a response. It's hard for him to notice them over the sound of his breathing, quickening with each step. He takes another.
“Four.”
The voice is coming from further away now. It carries easily over the space, breaking the crisp air. His breath comes faster, quick gasps drawn in through his nose. His chest hurts, sharp pangs piercing with each inhalation.
“Five.”
His throat feels tight, his mouth as dry as a tomb. His legs quiver on the next step and it is only through an effort of will that he keeps from sinking to the ground.
“Six.”
The wooden handle of the pistol is smooth against his palm. It wavers as he tries to keep it upright, the muzzle pointed at the overcast sky. His shoulders are tense, taut as a stretched line.
“Seven.”
Nothing else seems to exist before that voice. It is inexorably drawing closer to the point where it will speak no more, and he desperately wishes there was some way that he could make it end, some option that would allow him to escape the inevitable.
“Eight.”
There was no way out. He can't even remember how he got here. Whatever the reason that had caused him to get into this situation, it cannot have been important. Had there been something about a woman? Or was it a letter? He could not focus. Another step.
“Nine.
No way out. A sheen of sweat breaks out on his brow. A small sound escapes his mouth, part gasp, part whimper.
“Ten.”
No turning back. He stops. No more steps. No escape.
“Gentlemen. Turn.”
His body turns without any prompting from his mind, drawn back towards the voice like a lure on a fishing line. His eyes scan over the meadow, seeing without registering the cluster of well-dressed people standing beneath a sweeping elm tree. Another man is standing a little apart from them, but he does not seem to see him either. In the distance there is a figure, just a blotch of maroon and flesh, really. He blinks his suddenly watering eyes, clearing them and the blotch swims into focus. Another man, standing twenty paces away. Twenty paces - that seemed so far a moment ago, now seems barely an arm's length away.
The man standing apart from the group raises his hand towards him.
“Good sir, you shall have the first shot.”
He thinks his heart stopped at those words, but it has started again, fluttering beneath his breast. Fingers trembling, the muscles in his hand tight, he lifts the heavy pistol. Has the handle been this slippery the whole time? How has he not dropped it in that infinite walk to this point?
His arm straightens, the pistol pointing at the man on the other side of the field. He sights down the length of the barrel. It sways back and forth and he blinks again, his eyes focussing.
The moment drags on for a breath, and then another. The pistol will not stop moving. He knows he will only get one chance, one shot. If he does not succeed this time, he knows in his churning belly that he will not get another try.
And then, with a deep inhalation of breath, the muzzle stops moving. It is fixed directly over the other man. He breathes out, squeezing the trigger tightly, the metal biting into his finger.
A deafening crack, and a jolt in his arm. A flurry of wings as every bird in the woods takes flight.
He flinches back, momentarily stunned. There is a cloud of smoke dissipating in front of him. His heart leaps. The smoke clears and it is as though a lead weight has fallen into his belly. The other man is still standing. The other man is not hunched over. The other man is watching him with no discernible expression.
He tries to say something but no noise will come out. They are all looking at him. They all know. He knows. Everyone knows what will come next. Swallowing, he lowers the pistol and turns his body to the side. He does not look at the other man. There is movement in his peripheral vision; the other man raising his pistol.
He can feel nothing. His eyes are wide as they stare off into the distance. His breathing comes quickly, short, sharp pants that whistle and catch in his throat in the cold air. His stomach clenches, his muscles tightening over his entire body, seizing up completely. He could not move if he wished to. It makes his body quiver and then it is wracked by a sob. He squeezes his eyes shut against the tears.
It lasts an eternity and is gone all too briefly. He feels like he is being swept away by a strong current, and wishes he could reach out and grasp the passing seconds as though they branches to latch onto and hold him in place. He draws in a deep breath and the eternally short moment is gone.
There is a loud crack followed by a horrible whistling. There is burning through his neck, but the grass is wet and cool against his cheek. He doesn't remember lying down. His stomach has ceased churning. His eyes stay fixed on the trees as his breath staggers, and then stops.
