Going Out With A Bang. [contest entry]

The water ran down the man’s skin and washed away the dirt. Not even that water could cleanse his sins.1

His black hair dropped down to his shoulder. Only his eyes were darker then his hair, and his eyes were as black as his soul.2

He felt sick and disgusted at himself. At what he’d done. At what he was going to do. Too late now though, he’d made his decision. It was time.3

Stepping out of the shower seemed harder than getting into it. It was if he’d gained several stones in the hotel shower. He knew what it was. It was the ball and chain of guilt and worry chained around his ankle. Dragging him down. Trying to get him to stop and just give in and continue his life alone.4

That so wasn’t going to happen. 5

The condensation on the mirror was thick, and the room felt humid. He whipped the mirror, moving the grey away so he could look at himself one last time. He didn’t feel any less the disgrace he was to himself, to his family, to everyone. 6

His face twisted into a scowl as he grabbed the towel from the side, rubbing his body all over. The force and the scratchiness of the towel was enough that he turned raw red. If he’d had more time he would have done it so much that he bled. He didn’t have time, though. They were waiting.7

Clothes now. He dressed slowly, carefully, knowing this was going to be the last time he’d wear them. He was going to go out in a bang. He wanted to look good; everyone was going to be watching him.8

The gun lies on the bed, untouched, discarded as he had been for so much of his life. He gives it a look and then passes by. He has other stuff to do first. The gun sheams in the light from the window, glittering angrily at him as if it had a personality of its own.9

He ignores it. He’s got good at that now.10

The plastic explosives look harmless. Like soft, creamy butter or play doh. He smiles and reaches for them. They feel pathetically soft under his hands. 11

He straps them under his shirt, puts them in his shoes, everywhere he can find a place for them. The lighter in his pocket jabs into his hip irritably. He winces and moves on. He pulls his shirt back down and then puts on his jacket. The black glow he omits clashes with his skin. It makes him look pasty and malnourished. He doesn’t know that though. 12

The gun looks twitchy and excitable as he reaches for it. The metal is cool and comforting under his hands. He’s had it since he was eleven. His father gave it to him. It’s been fired many times in the fifteen years since then. It fits snug under his jacket, in a little holster of its own. It lies there snug now, quiet, as if knowing of its purpose. Its final act. 13

The hotel room is quiet and uninteresting. Someone laughs in the hallway. A girl. Her mother scolds her. 14

He waits. The second hand on his watch twitches slightly. He stands and pulls his small bag over his shoulder, stepping out behind them. Very soon now. A smile lights upon his lips. He says good morning, how do you do, to a small lady doing the morning cleaning. 15

He walks out of the hotel and into the airport. The overhead lights make his hair glisten like some dark, destroying angel. He checks in and shows his Air Marshall badge to the lady. He flashes his gun. She nods and lets him through; Air Marshals are allowed guns on board. Plus, nobody ever suspects them. He giggles under his breath and then moves on quickly before she gets wary. 16

People bustle around. Happy. Sad. Scared. Frail. Macho. 17

All the same. Some will die today. Some won’t. He sits and gazes at them, lost in the vortex they create. 18

‘Will the last passengers please board the flight to New York? This is the final boarding call.’19

He starts, then looks down shyly and up again. 20

Oh well, here goes nothing. 21

A sin to end a lifetime of sins. How ironic.22

‘Will the last passengers to New York please proceed to the boarding bay?’