The taste of gunpowder is bitter on the barrel of the gun.
Blue eyes across the gun stare through mine and my skin and into the vacancy where my soul once was.
There are no tears on her face. She emits no regret.
Her serious expression assures that the trigger will be pulled.
Kneeled in a puddle I study her standing over me.
I study the thick drops of rain showering around her, on her shoulders and head.
Short wet jet black hair sticks to her cheeks and obstructs her line of sight until she brushes them aside, like a pesky fly.
Like a deer caught in the headlights, I can’t look away. The headlights are this girl.
They are her gaze, her gun, her hair, her face. The headlights are the moment.
I notice the moon in the background. It’s perfectly round, perfectly white, perfectly innocent.
My tongue slides around the barrel to reposition, for comfort's sake.
Deep breaths help take in the beauty that follows.
Her tightened grip on the handle tells me it’s coming.
Even in my wildest dreams I would have never thought I’d die in such a beautiful way.
I could have only imagined eyes as blue as an afternoon sky would be the farewell party.
The trigger is pulled. I’m suddenly alone holding the gun, aiming at a smoking empty hole on the floor, where no one rests.
The nearby river’s stream is loud, powerful, but it ends in still water.
The pond feels cold when I walk in.
The frosty water is my bed. It holds my back up.
I took off only my shoes.
My skirt and blouse are drenched. My hair is drenched.
It’s relaxing, calming that I’ve somehow escaped my own madness.
The moon continued to linger overhead. To observe me while I observe it.
The blue eyed girl swims up, she enjoys the moon with me.
“It’s beautiful!” she says and reaches out of the water with a gun.
She aims it at my head while we both watch the moon turtle by.
By Amber Black