Dark Blue Oldsmobile, by Mike Posillico
He
sat in the four-door sedan waiting patiently. He'd been there all night long. A
thin layer of frost spider-webbed over the dash top and crawled past the
gauges. He could see his breath, but it didn't matter. He couldn't risk being
heard; the engine would need to stay quiet. He gazed out the window at the
small house, his eyes motionless and bloodshot.
 |
| © Kevin Speidell 2012 |
The
single-story home across the way was pitch dark, save for the apricot glow
emanating from a bedroom window. A female silhouette could be seen walking back
and forth. She was getting dressed. She'd soon be coming out, and when she did
he'd be ready.
The
pistol was heavy in his gloved hand, but it felt good to hold it. The bore was
wide enough for a human finger.
"I'm
gonna knock this bitch's head right off her shoulders," he said aloud to
no one. "Surprise, baby," he whispered, as he tapped the rod against
the window of the car. "Surprise, surprise . . ."
The
bedroom light went out.
He
checked the chamber of the gun one last time, quietly opened the driver's side
door, and crept toward the stoop.
A
lone feminine voice could be heard from inside the house, drawing closer and
closer to the front door. She was singing a song that was strangely familiar,
but he couldn't place it. He slowly lifted the mail slot and peered through the
narrow opening into the inner dark.
He
heard her mellifluous voice clearly now.
She
paused mid-lyric.
"You're
making me late for work, baby. It's time for us to go." He let go of the
mail slot and readied himself.
 |
| © Kevin Speidell 2012 |
Steadily,
he leveled the gun toward the spot he anticipated she would be. He heard the
locks on the door release, one by one, until it finally swung open. The woman
stepped out and was instantly startled by the sight of him. She jumped back
with a hand on her chest, laughing at first.
The
initial shot passed through the back of her palm and into her heart. She
immediately fell to her back, gasping for breath.
The
second took off the bottom half of her jaw, spinning her head to the side.
The
third entered through her temple and was the last thing she ever heard.
The
morning paper, still wet with dew, was the last thing she ever saw.
Before
you could count to three, it was over.
 |
| © Kevin Speidell 2012 |
He
tucked the weapon into his belt and stepped over the body. As he passed the
door jamb he knelt down to pick up the infant who lay crying at his feet: the
only witness to the slaughter. He looked into her face and gently dabbed the
crimson spatter from her cheeks. Her wails continued to ring out, piercing the
otherwise tranquil dawn.
The
dark blue Oldsmobile turned over on the first try. The powerful engine drowned
out the sobbing child. As if in no rush at all, he blew hot air into his hands,
took one last look at the house where he had spent his youth, and drove off
into the early morning sun.
