END OF DAYS SERIES: Regrets, but one.
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“What word of what I just said didn’t you understand?” Deedle said mocking him as she pulled the handgun from her shoulder bag.
“Deedle…. hold on…. put the gun down,” he pleaded rolling back in his chair with nowhere to go.
With a flick of her thumb, the laser-powered scope turned on, and she raised the red dot until it settled between his eyes.
“Don’t do this, Deedle. I thought you were coming over here to make amends? It was a long time ago. We’re friends now, right? We’ve done business together. This is crazy… We’re both going to die in a few hours anyway. I’m sorry…. don’t do this…”
“I’m not going to give you that luxury… you prick…. You don’t deserve to go out with the rest of humanity.” She took aim.
“WAIT! Just wait! I didn’t have a choice–”
“NO! I DIDN’T HAVE A CHOICE!” She shouted cutting him off as the red dot bounced along his forehead. She promised herself she wouldn’t lose control of her emotions over this scumbag and needed to prove to him she was no longer the young impressionable nitwit she had been in those days, new to the jewelry trade and too trusting of shitbags the likes of Donald.
Seeing him here, now, brought back thirty years of anger and sleepless nights of reenacted dreams when he claimed to have lost a piece she had loaned him; it had been her most precious piece, a vintage VCA coral and diamond leaf motif brooch worth a little more than eighty-seven grand…. a fortune to her at the time.
“Tell me, Donald…. and if I sense any bullshit… I swear I’ll blow your fucking head off!” It felt good for her to say that out loud having rehearsed this line over and over in her head during her walk along Fifth Avenue to Donald’s office.
An hour earlier, she and everyone on the planet had received a series of public service emergency alerts that a catastrophic solar flare, ten times the diameter of Earth, was heading toward them and there was no chance of survival. The Internet had become choked with posts of people making amends and being with those they loved. There was nothing anyone could do. Instead of rushing home to Dov, she had sat in her office thinking of any regrets she may have had in her life. There was one.
“What did you do with that piece I loaned you, Donald?”
He looked at her, feigning confusion.
“Donald! Answer me!” She shouted and dropped her leg back and took straight aim.
“I sold it!” He blurted out. “I’m sorry, but I needed the money… “
“To whom?” She demanded.
He was stuttering, looking for an answer that wasn’t there. “No-no one you know… please… put the gun away… we can talk about this.”
“You’re lying to me,” she said calmly. “You always flick the end of your nose when you lie… just like you did right now.” She took aim down the barrel.
“OK, OK, OK… I gave it to Anna Skylovski… Don’t shoot…” he whimpered.
“You were always such a pussy, Donald. I should have known you’d give it to that slut… I hope the blowjob was worth this bullet in your head,” she said closing one eye just before pulling the trigger and for Donald to thrust his hands in front of his face and turn slightly. The sound was much quieter than she imagined, a single pop. She looked up to see a hole in his palm and the tip of his nose missing.
“FUCK ME!” Donald screamed out as the blood began to gush. He pulled his bloody hand down and held it, growling through clenched teeth and the bubble of his voice though the tip of his shredded nose. Beyond him the bullet had exited the picture window, leaving a spider web in the glass.
“Damn! My aim sucks,” she said more to herself than for Donald’s sake. “Dov insisted I get a gun to protect myself. He even took me clay shooting, and those fucking orange pigeons went sailing forth unhindered by my bullets… I would have shot you in the balls, Donald, but I now realize you never had any.” She laughed and raised the gun once more but jumped when the sirens outside screamed out, distracting her long enough for Donald to grab the paperweight from his desk and hurl it, striking her in the forehead and knocking her onto the floor.
She was lying there, still holding the gun when Donald launched over the desk onto her, his good hand pinning the gun to the carpet.
“You stupid bitch,” he screamed inches from her face. She felt the warmth of his bloodied forearm on her throat as the drip from his nose landed her cheek. He began to press down.
Her free hand was clutched to the brooch that had come loose from the fall, the long gold pin held in her fingers. She jabbed him in the temple and felt the pin bend when it hit bone.
He roared out and rolled over onto his back, and Deedle staggered up onto her Jimmy Choos, the gun still hot in her hands. She wiped her cheek, straightened her suit and brushed the flip of her hair to the side while the sirens outside continued at a deafening pitch. The end was coming.
Donald pushed himself up against the front of his desk, defeated. “Get it over with. Do it. Do me the favor of not having to see your fucking face as my last image. DO IT!
Deedle raised the gun and held it steady, the red dot settling between his eyes. She was breathing heavily, and her head ached. She looked into his eyes that were filled with hatred, and she began to laugh. She was laughing so hard it drew Donald in as he closed his eyes and laughed achingly with her.
She wanted to pull the trigger, but the reservoir of revenge felt half full, and she didn’t want this to end, on his terms, so she lowered the gun and pulled the trigger and miraculously hit his knee. A black dot appeared on his pant leg, and he screamed out once more, a primordial guttural, “FUCK YOU” through threads of red spittle tethered from his bloodied lips.
The reservoir had drained, and she raised the gun, held her breath, and pulled the trigger. Another pop and beyond the sights of the barrel a black dot appeared on his forehead as if that was all that bullets did was to create black dots. A crimson ribbon began to drip between his eyes and along his nose where it bowed like a strand of silk onto his chest.
“No, Donald… Fuck You,” she said under her breath and lobbed the gun into his lap.
She was smiling to herself in the mirrored walls of the elevator, primping and wiping his blood from her face and throat until the courtesy ping of the elevator notified her she had reached the lobby. The doors opened, and she stepped out onto the worn marble floors with the echo of her heels the only sounds she heard as she walked toward the revolving doors that opened to the street.
Everything seemed so surreal; it was a beautiful day with not a soul in sight. Everyone who was, were where he or she needed to be. Deedle walked Fifth Avenue toward her Upper East Side apartment, not drawn in by the windows of Christian Louboutin or lured through the open doors of St. Patrick’s by the sobering choir of voices within. She walked past Bergdorf’s without admiring the window displays and was amazed not to see crowds gathered around the Apple Store. Why couldn’t it always be like this? She thought to herself as she headed along the park with the dogwoods in bloom and over the wall in the fields beyond, horses with tiaras were grazing on the chartreuse of grass — their handsome cab owners having set them free. She couldn’t remember the last time she walked home from work and took note of all the shops and cafes she had never been to or had known to exist.
With the crosstown walk behind her, she stopped to admire the tower of her apartment building and the duplex apartment at the top, a symbol of her success. She thought back to the countless dinner parties out on the terrace, her love of the kitchen and cooking, the smells of fresh biscotti on the oven sheets with Dov always stealing one before they cooled. She had some great times there, and those thoughts filled her with happiness.
It felt odd opening her own door to the lobby, where Kevin was not there to greet her with his infectious smile, eager to carry her packages no matter how small. She entered the to its emptiness, where the elevator door at the far end of the lobby was openly awaiting her, an NYC rarity. She rode up in silence to the penthouse floor and stepping out, the door to her apartment opened before she could remove her key. Standing in the doorway was Dov in his tuxedo holding two glasses of champagne.
Noticing the bruise on her forehead and smear of blood on her cheek, throat, and blouse, he asked nonchalantly, “Tough day at the Batcave, Batgirl?”
“You should see the other guy…” she huffed and dropped her bag to the floor as she reached for her glass and kissed him hard on the lips. “Come on Batman…. we’ve got some messing around to do before the world ends. Hopefully, this solar flare thing is not fake news, or I will have some serious explaining to do in the morning….”
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