To Hold Her Hand Again

September 26, 2010
By PureBlue101 BRONZE, Bellingham, Washington
PureBlue101 BRONZE, Bellingham, Washington
4 articles 2 photos 1 comment

Favorite Quote:
The Future Belongs to Those Who Believe In the Beauty of Their Dreams.”

--Eleanor Roosevelt

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, making the building shake on its weary knees. The old, rundown building was the only spectator of the scene unfolding below. Outside was a peaceful and quiet summer night, contrary to the happenings inside.
Another gunshot echoed through the place.
Grant flinched. He had no idea where his adversary was in this building. He checked his hand gun, the one he got at a pawn shop just 2 hours before his very minute. He smacked his head in frustration. Only two more bullets and like an idiot he had forgotten to grab extras. He shook his head at the hopelessness of the situation. He was doomed and he knew it. Deep down he wished he never got mixed up in this revenge business.
Then she drifted into his mind, laughing and smiling; kissing him tenderly. He shook the feelings of regret away and knew he was doing the right thing. She didn’t deserve to die; she was too good. He didn’t know why she picked him; out of all the other guys aching for her attention. That beautiful girl was the only person ever to be able to go into the deep parts of his heart. She held the key to his existence-to his heart and soul. That made her worth dying for; all the pain it caused for him to get to this present time. He ached to hold her hand again.
He crouched deeper into the shadows, hoping the movement wasn’t seen. He was up against a lot and he knew it. He, who had never killed a single person in his life, was hunting (or being hunted) a trained killer. Without anything to do, but wait, Grant allowed his mind to drift back to her; his love of his life.
Every time she entered into a room, all eyes looked at her. She would smile a greeting and continue to do what she came for. She was a dreamer; an artist. She painted magnificent paintings. She took photographs of everything; of him and her. She gave him a black and white drawing of them as a Christmas present. He loved how she captured both of them together. They were on the beach, watching the sunset, hand in hand. An elderly couple offered to take a picture of them. As the elderly couple walked away hand in hand, she leaned into his side.
“We will be like that, Grant.” She paused, to watch the elderly couple disappear out of sight. “We will grow old together and take long walks along the beach won’t we, Grant.” He could only shake his head and kiss her forehead, aching with the love he had for her. “I love you.”
Rustling from around the corner brought Grant back to his dangerous situation once more. He crouched forward and aimed his gun toward the corner. No one came from around it. He sighed and lowered his gun. He had only two bullets left and he wasn’t going to waste it on some noise he thought he heard.
She was a kindergarten teacher; her adoration for young children made Grant fall in love with her. She devoted many hours of her time with those precious children, the nation’s future. She had died protecting them.
Tears began to course down his cheeks as he thought of her and her last minutes.
They were on their way to a museum. The children were excited and hyper and she was smiling and laughing; she always smiled. They took the city bus, Number 12, and traveled downtown. No one knew that the man who entered the bus at the next stop had murder on his mind.
Just before they reached the museum, the man stood up and pointed a gun at a young girl and demanded $300. The people of the bus emptied their pockets and came up with only $112. Before he pulled the trigger on an elderly man, Amy, his best friend, his beauty, stopped him and told him to kill her instead, sparing the people on the bus. Without a word, he turned and shot her in the chest and left without a word. He ached to hold her hand once again.
Grant quivered with rage. This was why he was here. He was here to avenge the life that he lost. He stood up slowly and turned. The moon cast an eerie, silvery shadow in the room making things more visible. He could make out a man’s shadow facing the opposite of Grant. Grant held up his gun and aimed for the right shoulder. He planned to disarm the guy and make him suffer. Before he shot, he spotted a turquoise flowerpot not 10 feet away from him. In the pot were dying daffodils. “Funny,” he thought before he lifted his arm. “Amy loved turquoise and daffodils.” He shook his head to clear it and resumed his mission. He lifted his arm and took aim to the silhouette.
He fired and time slowed down. The bullet hit the man and he spun around and fell to the ground. But what Grant had missed was the man held the gun in his left. Screaming in pain, the man went down, but not without the brains to hold onto his own gun. He fired at Grant.
The first thing Grant felt was the impact. Then, the searing pain flaming up like a blood-thirsty fire running up and down his body. He felt himself fall to the ground. Through a red haze, he saw the man put the gun to his head and fire. The old building trembled and quaked, Amy’s killer fell to the ground-by his own bullet. Not Grant’s.
He felt cheated. That should have been his bullet that tore through the man’s head. He felt betrayed almost. His desire for vengeance flamed up and died as he thought of what he would have done. He would have been no better than the man who had shot Amy. The man he had come to kill. Then he felt regret that the man would not suffer as he did. He coughed and choked on fluid. He spit and saw his spit was a deep crimson color: blood.
He was dying. Pain racked his torso, making him twitch helplessly. He felt sorrowful. Sorrow for the would-have-been future he and Amy might have shared together. But he knew that Amy was worth this. He saw her shining eyes-the tender look of love on the night he had asked her to share the rest of her life with him. Nothing else on earth could have compared to her pure, undeniable beauty as she watched Grant slide the engagement ring onto her finger. He felt, for the last time the ache to hold his dear Amy’s hand again.
“Life would have been perfect,” he thought as he slowly closed his eyes-the pain disappearing-his heart quietly beating its last beat.
He was with Amy; holding her hand once again.

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