I hate telling stories, to be perfectly honest with you. I’m not talking to now in the hope that you’ll be easier one me; I know better. There’s only one thing that I want now, and maybe if you understand, I can have my last request.

It began about a month ago, on July fifth, on that little stretch of road—you probably don’t care where. People go there on the Fourth with all sorts of fireworks, some legal, others…. It’s just far enough in the boonies that you stand a fair chance of not getting caught, though it’s wise not to wake the farmers. We were there for salvage—the party-goers often leave mounds of trash along the sides of the road, and if you look carefully, you can find some good stuff: beer bottles, sometimes not empty or even unopened; leftover food; sometimes some leftover fireworks—that’s a real treat; and all kinds of “toys.”

We were on our second beer—we split the goods we found—when we found the gun. It had fallen between two rows of crops, and the gleam from the afternoon sun led the way. It seemed rather old, but was pretty all the same. Tarnished but silvery, it could probably get us some cash back in town. Dan pulled out the cylinder and spun it. It had a full round of six bullets.

I tucked it gently into my back pocket rather than throw it in the back with the less fragile items. I didn’t pull it out again until we took a last break before heading back into town.

“Maybe we could keep it,” I said, admiring the shine of the new moon on it. I pretended to fire. “You know, in case we ever run into trouble.”

“A thing like that seems like it could be trouble,” Dan laughed. He somehow managed to keep a clear head until you got him to the tail end of a drinking contest. “Stick it in the bad. Bullets aren’t worth much.”

I was about to put it away when the world went white. I shielded my eyes with my free hand and tried to figure out what it was.

“Who’s there?” A voice demanded. It took me a moment to realize it wasn’t Dan. My stomach froze with fear.

“Run!” Shouted Dan; he’d made sense of this first, of course.

I leapt to my feet at once and took of though the rows of crops, hoping to hide in the fields. The next thing I knew I was curled up at the foot of a stalk of corn at the edge of the field. I pulled myself to a sitting position and tried to catch my breath while the world stopped spinning. Before me lay an empty patch of dirt and mud that stretched a while before tall grasses rose from the earth—some kind of wheat? I was still sober enough to know I’d be an easy target out there for at least a while.

I was about to stand when I heard a voice breaking through the night. I thumbed at something in my hand—the pistol! I still had it! I held the gun ready and listened, knowing my heavy breathing was sure to give me away. Another shout came, but in my condition I couldn’t make sense of it.

I tried pushing myself to my feet, but then like the idiot I was I leaned back against the corn; it broke easily under my weight. Whoever it was, he must have heard that. Sure enough someone stormed into sight—I took no time in aiming the gun at them, thinking to force them to run. But before I knew it there was the sound of a gunshot. Suddenly I found my finger pulled tight against the trigger. I dropped the gun and tried again to get to my feet, settling at last for my knees.

The second I saw his face my head cleared.

It wasn’t the farmer—no. It was Dan’s face I stared into, contorted by pain. By impulse I started with stupid, stuttered, nonsensical apologies. He didn’t seem to hear me; he was falling fast. And then, despite all efforts, my mind crept upon the future. I envisioned the trial: manslaughter, murder, his parents’ menacing glare, my parents’ disappointment.

No!

Maybe they wouldn’t know. I could run. But the gun—it would be covered with my fingerprints, a foul contamination that would mark me immediately. I scrambled to where I’d dropped it and held it protectively in my hands. I could allow no one to find it. And the bag; Dan had taken the bag with him when we started running. The bag was filled with bottles and fireworks which I had run my hands all over. I couldn’t let that stay there with him.

My knees suddenly warmed, and I realized to my aggravation that Dan’s blood had seeped onto the knees of my jeans. That wasn’t going to look good either. I grabbed the bag and decided to run as far as I could. I’d sort out the rest later. Just before I cleared out, I looked back down at him and wondered if there was any way to save him. The bullet had hit him somewhere in the upper abdomen. His hand gripped the place tightly and his breathing was haggard. I couldn’t be certain, but I knew that the odds were not in favor of his survival. And then if I did call for help, he could die anyway. They would know it was me who shot him, and I would go to jail.

A murderer caught behind bars. Could I afford to try to save his life? Could I afford to leave him there?

I did all my mourning right there. Not just for Dan, but for me as well. Then I reluctantly tore my eyes from him and ran, not knowing or caring where I ended up so long as it was far, far away. For a moment I thought I heard a whisper….

You know that feeling where you want to do one thing but your mind just will not allow it until you take care of something else? Yeah…sorry to be scatter-brained, but some short stories (suddenly I can write them) worked their way into my head and refuse to go out any other way.

As for this one, it was intended to be a single chapter long, but it’s grown a bit too big for that. I’ll be back when I feel like it