Cigarette

The tree swayed menacingly beneath the dark sky. Andre sat beneath it, taking in a long drag from his butt of a cigarette. Ashes formed on the end, falling off and landing on his dark green jacket. Leaning on the tree was a rusty, dull shovel, with dirt and mud still on it from its last use.1

A man who stood next to him groped the shiny six-gun on his right thigh. “All right, Andre, that’s enough,” he said. “It’s time to get to work.”2

Andre sighed, but did not protest. There was no use in complaining. It would not get anywhere, especially since he was in a very binding situation. He stood, picked up the shovel and started digging.3

The man with the weapon walked around Andre so he could watch him better. His hand never left his weapon. The gunman knew there was little danger, but he still stayed alert on instinct.4

As Andre dug, his thoughts wandered to the girl from five years ago. She was one of the few people who tried to understand him, other than Samuel, the gunman. When he appeared on her doorstep full of gunshot wounds, he honestly believed he would be shut out. When she took him in and nursed him to health, he was shocked so strongly, something happened that had never happened to him before.5

He fell in love.6

As he lay in her bed, barely able to move, she spoke to him in that gentle voice of hers, singing him songs both happy and sad, whenever he needed them, and without his request. She had to leave for work in the morning, but she always returned by noon to feed him, and then back again for the night by early evening. She would tell him the day’s events, and he would lay there in glee as he experienced the purest form of happiness he could ever imagine.7

However, that was all over. It ended when the girl was found dead in her own home, full of bullets.8

The hole was about two feet deep now. He was getting tired, but he had to keep on going. The hole had to be six feet deep in the end.9

Then there was the doctor in Newchester, who was not nearly as loving, but still supportive. He wanted to help Andre, but he wanted to receive something in return. At the time, Andre did not think too much about it. He figured that if anyone was willing to help him, it was worth it, no matter what the cost. Besides, the only thing the doctor wanted was to talk to Andre every evening. It was not too much to ask.10

Then the doctor had him drink an odd medicine. Andre detested the vile liquid, but he took it nonetheless. It made him tired and nauseas, but it did what the doctor promised it would do—control his urges.11

The doctor never tried to comprehend Andre in the way that the girl or Samuel did, but the doctor was slow to make him an enemy, which was better than most. The talks were actually quite comforting, and the medicine was less disgusting after the first month.12

In a stroke of irony, the one day Andre arrived late at the doctor’s house, the doctor was murdered.13

The hole was two-thirds on its way to completion. Only two feet left, and the day’s work would be done. Samuel adjusted his hat with his left hand.14

Andre’s thoughts turned to that man. Samuel was quite a figure, alright. Tough as nails, with an eye sharp enough to shoot a bullet after it left the barrel, yet gentle enough to handle a kitten. The best friend Andre could ever ask for. He laughed on the inside as he compared that thought to his current circumstances.15

When Andre and Samuel first met, they instantly liked each other. Andre needed a place to sleep, and Samuel lived alone in his house, so it was an obvious decision that they should live together. Life was rather normal then; Andre found a job and worked like any other man, and Samuel lived life just as before, except he now had someone to talk to at night.16

Then one night, Andre awoke, surrounded by five men with guns drawn, one of them Samuel. Andre looked at his hands and saw they were covered with blood. With little time to explain, the men held Andre down, tied him up, and carried him away.17

While they were doing this, Samuel kept on saying, “I’m sorry, Andre, I’m sorry,” and Andre believed him.18

The hole was finished, finally. He climbed out of the hole and met Samuel again at the top. Samuel smiled sadly and handed over another cigarette. He placed one in his own mouth, took out a sulfur match, and lit both of them.19

Andre noticed that Samuel’s hand was still on his gun. “Is that really necessary?” Andre said with a grin.20

“Of course not,” replied Samuel. “It’s a habit.”21

Andre nodded. He looked over his shoulder. A crowd had drawn to see the event. Not surprising; it was common in this region.22

A pudgy man in a business suit ran over and whispered to Samuel, “It’s almost time. Only another minute or so.”23

Samuel nodded, and the man ran back to a stage that was set up nearby.24

Andre walked back to the hole and took another long drag from his cigarette. The ash fell into the hole, and Andre realized something. He took a note from his jacket pocket and read it over. He pulled off the jacket—his only real possession—and tossed it on the ground. The jacket would soon belong to Samuel.25

Samuel went up to Andre and blindfolded him. He then took several steps back.26

The man on the podium called out to the audience and said, “Good evening, ladies and gents! Tonight, the murderer Andre will meet his fate! The executioner will be Deputy Samuel, as one of his rewards for bringing in this dreadful man. Now, for the event!”27

Samuel pulled the gun from its holster, and he pointed it at Andre. “I’m sorry that it had to end this way,” he said before cocking the gun.28

Andre attempted to smile, but failed. He answered, “Don’t worry. It was never your fault.”29

Samuel remained silent and fired his weapon. Andre was hit in the back of his head, and he fell over into the hole and died.