"Damn you," he whispered. Then he tried in vain to raise the barrel of his weapon; that was when the last of his strength left his body. I watched in silence he slowly slid down the base of the tree and flopped face down in the mud. Small ripples of blood and water floated across the tiny pond and then slammed against the far side.
For a second I stood and stared at the dead man, remembering what it was like to kill another human being. Then I holstered the pistol and turned to look out into the darkness. I realized in that moment that I was what the sergeant had always believed me to be and always would be, a gunman and a killer, I was a man with no heart and no soul, a man as dead inside as the corpse at his feet.
©2016 J.S. Striud (P)2017 Outlaws Publishing LLC