By Ryan Connery
He felt the cold sweat run down his back merging with the brick wall behind him, the shirt clinging to him his only defense against the harsh red rock that massaged his spine. He rested the heel of his hand against the side of his head, wondering if he had it all wrong, if he had missed something so important that the life he had cut so short could have lived on had he just paid attention.
It never changed for him, it always came like this the moment afterwards, that moment of recollection. That few seconds after the blood stopped rushing through his veins he’d curse himself for being so damn careless, his memories played the same tricks his emotions seemed to enjoy afterwards.
“Was that a gun he had?”
He couldn't tell, it seemed a moot point rationally, but he knew it was going to gnaw on his brain for a while, like the cold ego dissolve of the cocaine in his nasal passages. He cursed himself again. “What was I thinkin’ getting this way seconds before a job? I'm a professional.” He straightened his tie and stood up, the still night air provided no respite from the sweat pooling in the small of his back. Steadying himself with a hand against the opposite wall, he finally got to his feet. “He had a gun, and he would’ve used it on me just to wound me, hunt me like a dog as I ran bleeding.”
Ryan Connery, who recently earned his bachelor's degree in philosophy, is a water spirit who spends much of his time dreaming and working on conjuration via multiple mediums. He can often be found arguing with inanimate objects for no apparent reason.
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