Creative Writing: Remembering Life

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I lay under the bed, quietly, breathing our through my nose in long, controlled breathing. I knew they were coming. They had me cornered like a starving animal. The memories of my life started flashing before my eyes. Papa Moss, Vietnam, Carla Jean, the dying Mexican in the truck; All those events had led to this moment, where I lay underneath a hotel bed with my shotgun trained on the door, waiting, anticipating.

Footsteps. They came in the dead of night, quietly yet deliberately. I lay still as my fingers tightened around the shotgun; It was my only hope survival, my only chance to live a normal life again. His shadow stopped at the door, and I heard him insert the key. The door creaked open, allowing a sliver of light to pass from the hallway into the room. He stepped cautiously into the room, making his way silently towards the bathroom. I don’t know what kind of man he was, whether he was white or Hispanic, a young gunner or an old timer. All I knew was this man wanted to kill me, and my survival depended on his elimination. I’m sorry, I thought to myself, but I have no choice.

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The shot echoed through the hotel. The man, whoever he was, was thrown background against the wall and crumpled to the floor on a heap. There was blood and pieces of shrapnel plastered on the wall behind him. I have to leave now, I though, I’m sure they heard the gunshots and will be coming for me any minute. I hopped out the back window, grabbing only my nylon bag and my shotgun. The money was still in the air vent, but I wasn’t worried about them finding it. I just had to lie low for a couple of days and come back and get it in the dead of night.

I ran across the dimly lit street behind the hotel. I felt exposed, like someone was watching me from a nearby window, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. I plunged into a brush, and made an awkward path towards the city.

A few nights later I returned to the hotel. There was yellow tape around the entrance, and not a living soul in sight. I slipped under the tape and crept towards my room. I had that same feeling as I did a few nights before, like someone was secretly watching me. Something tugged in my stomach, but I ignored the feeling. I came to my room, and crossed under another strip of yellow tape. The room was virtually the same as I left it, minus the dead man that was there a few days ago. You dumb Mexicans, I thought to myself, and a smirk appeared on my lips. I jumped on top the bed, opened the air vent, and fished out the suitcase. I stood there motionlessly, gazing at the suitcase and pondering what I should do next.

Hello Moss. I jumped. A figure emerged from the darkest corner of the room. Who are you. Who I am should not concern you, but for your pleasure I shall give you my name. I am Anton Chigurh.

He told me to sit down. We talked for a bit, about life and how it had all led to this. That he was destined to end it here and now. I accepted this fate. I had it coming anyway. He pointed the gun to my head. Now just hold still, he whispered He squeezed the trigger, and then it was all gone.

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