MORSHEDLOO "Untitled" (2008)

(An excerpt from my novel)

You don’t fuck with the Persians. I should have learned that earlier. I suppose in the back of my mind, I always knew. But it was not until this pivotal moment that I realized the downward spiral of destruction of what is now my so-called life. My hands are shaking. I am stronger than this. Stop shaking! Maybe if I closed my eyes for a moment, and gather the strength to disguise myself as a much stronger man, I could do this. There he is, my best friend of twenty years, standing before me looking as pitiful as a dog. He had this coming. My 9mm pistol aimed between his eyes. Dante. Such a suave man in his time. I doubt if the hundreds of girls he’d manipulated and fucked over the years could imagine him standing as he is now, cowering with his hands above his head, begging for his life with fresh piss dampening his left pant leg. Corduroy? Who wears corduroys anymore? Fuck. Concentrate. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but the trigger felt like butter, and seemed to melt between my fingers. I missed his forehead entirely. When I opened my eyes, I could see the hole that went straight to this right eye socket. I dropped the gun immediately, as the slippery butter consumed the entire gun. Surprisingly it took a good five seconds for his balance to give way, and collapse onto the hardwood floor. It was not even five minutes ago that he stood in his apartment’s kitchen cooking up something or another. And now, what critical remains of his deformed bloody head lay splattered onto the floor. The silencer did a superb job muffling the sound of the fire. I was not concerned about neighbors hearing any gunshot. However, I was concerned about what I had just done. My initial instinct after I analyzed and accepted what I had done, was to walk over to Dante’s dead body, and kneel beside it. Carefully with my left gloved hand, I stroked his hand. “You did this to yourself you dumb fuck.” I whispered shifting the blame subconsciously to ease the tensions of my super ego. I knew what I had done. I knew he was not entirely at fault. I knew the repercussions of my actions and the guilt that would most likely eat at me for the rest of my life (however short-lived that may be). I stared up at the blood stained fridge and frowned. I need to get the fuck out of here.