Midnight

There was something about midnight that I always found particularly attractive. it's a very dramatic time when the hands on the clock line up. Assuming the clock is well made.

Time seemed to slow down as my eyes wandered from the clockface. The wind was soothingly brisk, and it gently rippled the water at my feet. But as I sit here tapping my fingers on the park bench, waiting for the clock on the brightly lit clocktower toll its twelve strokes, midnight suddenly seems like a frightening thing. What am I doing here, under the stars, when all sensible people are in bed?

If there's one flaw no one ever tried to pin on me, it's being too sensible. I stopped myself from double checking to make sure my automatic was loaded. I knew it was, I'd checked a dozen times or more on the ride here. I'm not used to carrying a gun. It feels heavy my pocket.

The second hand reached the bottom of the clock and started up the other side. It flashed across my mind that this, somewhat ugly, clock might be the last thing I'd ever see. There was so much more I wanted to do, it seemed a shame. But come to think of it, this was bigger than all of those hopes.

I wondered about the clockwork behind that face, the many hidden cogs, springs, fanbelts and who knows what that kept the hands in motion. It reminded me of all the movements of fate that had led me to this place, and the utter incomprehensibility of it all. The clock ticked on.

I had the paper bag sitting on the bench beside me. It was filled with cut up pieces of paper. For an instant I wondered why we hadn't used real money if we were so sure of success. I never had been, I knew as I know that this is a dangerous gambit.

The real problem was that we knew they wouldn't come unless I came completely alone. And it had to be me. And I'm not much good with a gun.

But that's life I suppose. Or the other thing, depending. The clocked ticked down the final seconds.

A gunshot shattered the silence, and I felt a searing pain in my ribs. He fired again as I slumped off the bench, trying to pull my gun from my hip pocket. I struggled, gun in hand, to face my attacker. The only surprise was that he waited until midnight. I brought the gun up and leveled it at him, my right hand shaking.

Guns are heavy.

I pulled the trigger, and then fired again before I could recover from the first shot.

Midnight is dramatic.