short story

Untitled Scene

Lately, it seems I’ve been writing stand-along scenes, more than actual stories with beginning middles and ends. Don’t know what that is about. But who am I to question the muse? Maybe they will lead to bigger and better things later on. Anyway, this (the following) is one of those scenes.

To call her a gun was a disservice. So was calling her a pistol or even a sidearm, as most did. She was so much more than that. So much more than a weapon, a tool. Her full name was Beretta semi-automatic pistol, model 92FS, type M9A1. She was chambered for 9mm, held a 15-shot clip, and was a beautiful two-and-a-half pounds of blue steel. Absolutely dependable. She had been his faithful companion for most of his adult life. Other friends had moved or faded away. She had always remained, a constant presence at his side.

Sometimes, late at night, when the ghosts again moved freely through the darkness, he found himself thinking about her as he sat alone in his apartment. How would it feel as her lips brushed his temple? Would the pain ease as they touched the sensitive skin under his chin? As they pressed against his own lips?

Sometimes he longed for that kiss and the ecstasy it promised.

Sometimes, as he sat there in his little apartment, it was all he could do to keep from finding out.

Derek caressed away a final speck of dust and thought again about her kiss, just as he had most nights lately. How long would it be before he finally gave in to her seduction?

His cell phone chirped, breaking the mood.

He laid the Beretta on his lap and reached for the phone. It was going to be work. He was on call tonight. Besides, no one else ever called.

He answered in the middle of the second ring. “Shaw.” With his other hand he muted the television’s laugh track.

The dispatcher sounded almost apologetic. “We have a shooting at 14032 West 9th, one down. Detectives have been requested.”

He noted the address on a scrap of paper. “Okay. Got it. On my way.”

Derek shut down his phone and the television and got to his feet. He had work to do. He slipped the Beretta back into the holster on his belt and headed to the front closet to get dressed for the rainy night. He felt a little electric trill of excitement. A homicide. Someone’s life had been cut short, countless others damaged because of it. And he was excited.

What was wrong with him?

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