The following flash fiction story is in response to a Weekly Flash Fiction Challenge held by author Chuck Wendig through his blog 'TERRIBLEMINDS'
A DAY IN THE LIFE
As the "crack" of his backhand slap reverberates from the dingy yellowish tile covered walls. Instinctively, I flinch, losing my sweaty, trembling grip on the handle of the borrowed roscoe. A loud pop! Chaos ensues, filling the air with the commotions of: the clanking of dishes, high pitched sobs, curses, and a dull thud!
"What the ..."
"Yo, Poindexter, what you...."
"Oh ..."
Heart racing, I tear my eyes away from the enlarging wet Rorschach blot on the front of the pants of the weeping cook. Two straight weeks of armed robberies, heists and murders, have my already raw nerves beyond their breaking point. Furtively, I search for the source of the thud. Finding my query, stills the breath in my chest. How did
"Yo, you shot..."
"Do you have any idea..."
The incessant ringing in my ears, prevents me from full comprehension of what is taking place around me. At this moment I realize I'm on my knees and unconsciously reach out my hand to the six foot metal dish rack to aid me in standing. Ironic, that such a grimy kitchen, has such nice dish racks. Who cleans them I wonder and why not clean the rest of the place. I take no notice of the crimson ink spot staining my right knee.
The stinging slap to my face, startles my shaking form back to reality, as I careen into a shiny metal counter, scattering dishes and utensils. My body jerks reflexively at the cacophony made by each shattering soiled plate, as it hits the grease smeared floor. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, desperately trying to cling to my sanity, while, searching my tired mind for any kind of solution.
Finally, I meet the gaze of my assailant, the cousin of the man lying in a puddle of his blood. I flinch from his gaze, my eyes tracking to the only area currently unoccupied by the living. He looks funny laying there, almost looks like he's winking. Only he's not winking, a trick of the shabby overhead lighting, shades the near empty eye socket in a manner conducive to winking.
"The debt you owe Perch, is nothin gainst what my uncle gonna demand for this here! You hear'n me college boy? I'm thinkin I should kill you myself but, I'm thinkin my uncle is gonna get real personal wich you like"
I look over to my childhood friend, the one who had gotten me into this mess I was in, in the first place. He averts his eyes, wearing an odd look of shame and relief. I begin to laugh, weakly at first, with a sound to rival that of soft sobs or weeping. My laughter gains volume and strength, I lunge wrapping both my hands around Chance's throat. My legs fold underneath me, before I hear the loud pop, my hand grasps the right side of his shirt weakly, in a desperate attempt to stay upright. I taste the bitter salt of my tears, as I crash to the floor, the smell of too may times used grease thick in my nostrils as the world fades to nothing.
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