In those milliseconds after Chollie pressed the muzzle of the revolver into my chest, I had a burst of thought, of sensation and memory that seemed far too much to fit into so short a time. There was, of course, the feel of the gun – cold, unyielding – digging into my flesh through the light cotton shirt. There was the look on her face, those fabulous dark eyes neither happy nor sad, with none of the anger or fear or regret that really ought to be there given all that had passed between us. There was the soft memory of her skin, supple white body arching and tightening beneath me as the sweat coursed off me in drops of molten hunger for her.
There was Chollie at the club, dancing, head thrown back so I could see the back of her carnivorous smile; there was the breeze in the street, cold and snapping at my coat; Chollie, naked in the Temple baths; the loud, LOUD click of the hammer drawing back under her thumb …
“Goodbye,” was all she said, sending the hot slug into my heart with a sound that klacked like thunder reverberating down the streets and alleyways of an empty city.
As I fell back my hands reached out sideways, a wasted reflex, clutching at air; hitting the ground hurt far more than getting shot. I felt my twittering heart, spasming, gushing precious blood through shattered ventricles to drench the spaces between my ribs. The deep breath I needed wouldn’t come, the set of internal cogs and wheels suddenly seized.
I began to die surprisingly quickly, pain flowering from my chest, groin tingling, hands and feet convulsing. You never really stop to think how constant is that flow of blood, how absolute that need for oxygen. It’s all that keeps the dark from closing in, and when it stops your whole world turns into a darkening tunnel, lit only by the diminishing spark that was your life.