Tuesday 1 December 2015

Day 2


I was seated at my upstairs window. An ancient oak desk sat there where I often read and clear my thoughts by looking out the window. I can see almost ten miles in every direction. Ten miles of long nothingness full to the brim with absolute hollow solidarity. Nothing but the wind, the dust, the hills and the wild to keep me company.
Except this time there was something else; a small black dot moving across the hill, about a half a mile away. I ran back to my chair, dug my hands in my bag and came out with the telescopic sight for my rifle. Grabbing the rifle too I scrambled back to my perch. I turned my desk halfway around so I could lie down and steady the rifle. The desk easily took my weight. Pushing the books and writings off, I pushed open the glass, which came loose with a crack and a flourish of dust. It had clearly never been opened in my lifetime. I took my binoculars from beside me, my father’s old, black, metal and plastic binoculars, and peered through. The powerful lenses were out of focus, and too withdrawn to see the shape. As I adjusted the dials by the edge of the objective lenses and eyepiece, and the shape began to take form. I hoped it was of the woman; the woman who ran through my garden this morning or last night. As it took shape, it was clearly another person. Not the woman however, this was of a man.

I focused further and was able to get a good look at him. He was a savage looking creature with rough, hide clothing, a long, intimidating spear, and harsh, almost yellow skin. He wore a sick and mean scowl, and his face looked scarred and worn. His clothing was improvised, made from cloth, wool, and animal skin. He seemed lost. He didn't seem to know where he was, what he was doing, or where he wanted to go. I wanted him gone. Selfish, I know. Honestly I was terrified. He looked in no way friendly, and I only wanted to scare him away. I loaded a tracer round into my rifle. Funny looking things they were. They looked the same as my regular ball shots, but stamped with a “G” at the bottom, and the tip was coated in a red substance. I never fired one before, but I read that they were used to mark accuracy, because one could see the bullet after firing, and get adjusted to the conditions, and in turn adjust the shot. The round slotted in and I worked the bolt into order.
Half a mile is a long way for a shot to travel. Everything needed to be taken into account. There was only a little wind, so if I got the distance right I could let loose a shot right over his head, and get him high tailing it back to where he came from. I could track him and find out more about his people, and where he came from. All going to plan, new friends and a new life could be around the corner.
Did I want to do that? Find new people? Whichever path I chose, I needed to take this shot, and get him moving back to where he came from.

I noted the time in my journal that I saw the man. My watch said six o'clock, but it felt much later. I started dialling in my sights shortly after that. I took the distance as about eight hundred metres, or half a mile. With my notebook and texts I rounded that to about eight hundred and seventy yards. I dialled in my sights to nine hundred to overshoot the target. Lots of vague numbers but I needed the shot to be very close, with not a lot of time to spare. He might have moved slightly, even twenty metres can spoil the shot. I noted the dust coming off the ground and saw the wind was starting to kick up. I decided to wait a few moments for it to die down. It didn't. It started blowing from my left, which was north. It changed and began to blow into my face through the window. I made another adjustment up on my scope. This had to be it. It was now or never.
I slowed by breathing, and listened to my heartbeat. Two thumps. Two thumps. Two thumps. In. Out. In. Out. I exhaled slow and easy. My heartbeat slowed slightly. One more breath in, and one more out and my heartbeat was in my ears. Two thumps.
The shot thundered throughout my house. It nearly took me by surprise. I pulled a bit hard on the trigger and the crosshairs dipped at the last moment. The shot still looked high. It spun out to the right before the wind carried it back left and kept the trajectory elevated. The bullet glowed white with a red centre and traced a slight line through the evening darkness. It was travelling high above his head until it dipped down about three hundred metres to go. It sank hard into the humid air of the valley and barrelled straight for my target. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I revelled in how near the shot was going to land. Through my scope I saw his perplexed face still looking around in absolute awe at his surroundings. The shot dipped with gravity and humidity pulling at it. It dipped, and dipped more. It kept falling until it was aiming strait for his head. He took his last moment to look right at my house, almost like it was right into my eyes before the bullet shot straight through his throat. He stood for a moment, even more dumbstruck than when he figured he was lost. The back of his neck plumed scarlet and his eyes flared bright white. He fell on his knees and put his hands to his neck in a futile attempt to control his blood loss. He coughed a solid mouthful of blood, tried to take one deep breath before coughing another, and that’s when the shock kicked in and he died, alone, in the middle of nowhere, struck down from a half a mile away. He was struck down, by my hand, and he had no idea from where and no idea why. He was dead before he heard the shot.

I cried my shame into my arms just then. I just killed the only person I had ever seen in my own lifetime that was not my own dear father. He would be so ashamed. But what was I supposed to do? The good Christian thing and offer food, water and a roof over his head? I scoffed at that and imagined myself walking over to him, arms open and welcoming, with a smile on my face like the saviours of old, and chanting my holy words to him. I kept my eye on him, almost hoping he’d wake up and dust himself off, not that he looked like he cared the welfare of his clothing. He obviously stayed resigned to whichever afterlife he thought he belonged to. I left out what felt like the last breath I took before pulling the trigger and took my leave of the window. This day was over.