revolver

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A rainy day in March. It's late, almost midnight. He walks home with his apron on. His tips from tonight's shift rattles in the pocket. The lights are dim and yellow, matches his feelings. He is tired, his work drains him physically, and his world exhausts him mentally. Deep in his own thoughts, he feels a certain uneasiness with himself.



He has a slim figure, tall, and with a upright posture. He walks with assurance, hands relaxed at his sides. The wind blows the cold rain onto him, his hair dampened by the rain, weighting him down. He could feel the cold rain drops rolling down his face.



He wasn't aware, but two shadowy figures had been following him, drawn by the rattles of the coins.
He walks towards his building, an old brownstone, wintered, like an dying old man trying his best to stand tall and show the world his lingering pride.



He went up the stairs to the front door of his building. Just now he feels something pointed to his back. "Don't move," a deep, trembling voice, "put the money on the stairs, and hurry."



He stands still, his slim figure illuminated by the yellow and dim lights, a posture of a former soldier.
"In my pocket, the apron." With a thick accent, he said it plainly, a voice without concerns. He feels the weight of his revolver in his jacket, drops his hands to the sides.



"Put them on the stairs, hurry!", the other trembling voice said. He felt another gun on his neck, cold steel piercing his skin. It is shaking, he can feel the nervousness.



He reaches towards the money, the money that he worked hard for, the money belongs to him.



Slowly and evenly, he places the money on the steps. He hears its taunt, daring him, "reach for your gun".



Just now, he hears his neighbors, sitting on the stairs of their building, "YO,........hey......". He couldn't make out what they are trying to say.



"Are they warning me? Or are they warning them?"



One of robber murmured something, then they started whispering franticly.



"Those are my friends," He felt he should say something. Evenly, he said, "They are my friends."



The robbers went silent, he felt that their guns are drawing further away from him.



He stands still again, resting both his hands down his sides, fingers relaxed, his silver revolver remains in his thoughts.



Without a word, they left and disappeared into the night.



He stood still for a while, he looked back with his tiresome face, found no one.



He picked up the money from the ground, stuffed them into the pocket, feels the chill rain on his face again and goes back to his thoughts. Slowly, he raises his hand and touches his jacket where his revolver is and went into the building.


 



None of this matters.

Created: Mar 28, 2014

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