The train was late. Or maybe time was just slower. He wasn’t looking at the clock, or at anything. His vision was blurry and his mouth sour with the taste of blood. A constant stream of it seeped from the wound on his chest to the hand clutched over it, following the rhythm of his heart, weaker by the minute. Every breath felt like his chest was ripping open, to the point of having pissed all over himself and the bench he was sitting on. Not that he cared.
The only sound he heard was his own painful breathing. Nobody around. Nobody to see him die. And that was fine by him. He didn’t want the train to come. He wanted the subway station to stay exactly like it was — silent, oblivious, lit by its cold artificial lights. In a few hours, that place would be packed with people going to their jobs, to look for one, to their schools, or — for the ones who worked the night-shift — to their homes.
But that would be in a few hours. Right now, the subway station was peaceful and he wanted it to stay that way. Even if it hadn’t been the first place he saw after being shot, even if he had made it to a hospital, or to a park, or anywhere else — he would have wanted to die in a place like this. Because he’d die anyway, and he didn’t want people over him telling him he’d be okay, or that he had to be strong for them, or begging him not to die as if he had a choice in the matter. He wanted to die like this — to have a chance to think about those last moments. When you’re sure you’re about to die, all the curtains, the lies, the deceit you built for yourself fall apart and you see your life more clearly than you ever did. Shame it’s too late by then.
But it was worse for the guy who shot him — he didn’t get to think about those last moments. He just died before even realizing a bullet had gone straight through his brain.
He felt his feet slipping slightly and realized there was a pool of blood beneath them. Wouldn’t be long now. He let a chuckle escape and coughed enough blood to fill a cup as a result. He wondered who’d find his body. He wondered how often that person would tell this story to amuse or terrify his friends, or how often that person would need therapy. It didn’t matter to him now, and probably wouldn’t have before either. He didn’t care about people, or about anything. He had no regrets. He had no remorse. He had known he was a psychopath since his twenties and had embraced it. And now, he was getting what had been a long time coming to him.
A hitman dying alone in a New York subway station. Nothing could suit him more. He never had friends, only pretended to. He had always hated his parents. Always hated the happy little fucking people who just went through life with an honest smile. The ones who just fit in without any effort. The ones he had always envied. The ones who looked at a woman and saw more than just a quick pleasure, the ones who saw a person begging in the street and would feel the urge to help them — the ones who’d try to help him if they saw him sitting in that bench, watching his own blood seep out, liter by liter. The ones who cared. The ones he could never be.
He heard the echo of a train make its way through the tunnel. He didn’t want it to come. He wanted the silence to continue. He wanted to die in silence. He wanted to hear himself go.
But it came and thundered across the station. During those long, dragging seconds, he wished he wouldn’t die.
And it was gone, and the silence was back, even sweeter than before.
He could die now.
—
(This flash fic was inspired by a gorgeous photograph by Rachael Noel Fox, available on her wonderful photography book “DAD SOLD CRACK HERE“. The link has a preview through which you can easily find the pic, although it does no justice to the photograph in the actual, printed book.)
