Timpani Redux

The sound of the gunshot is resonating in my head; loud and constant, violent and messy, rhythmic and devious.

I pulled the trigger while he screamed, begging me to calm down. I don’t know what it was about him that made it so easy, or that made my reaction so terrible. In that moment, I couldn’t see her face, some part of my mind must have shut it off. I made for my car a few blocks away, puke expelling from my mouth with every misstep.

Even now, as I’m sitting and facing my door, I don’t know whether the pounding is actually resonating in the air or if it’s residing in my head. I don’t know whether the police are out to get me, or if my own mental sanity is about to pull the trigger.

At this point, I don’t know who wants me dead more.

I can still hear the gunshot. Loud, clear, like a drum beating in my mind. Faster, faster. Harder, sharper. The door is shaking in front of me. The handle is spinning in every direction.

The orchestra is reaching it’s finale.

I lift my hands, queuing the crescendo.

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