One Last Sundown

Fingers fumbled inside of an old coat pocket, grazing over a small box, and picking at its opening flap. Once the flap was open, a finger wedged between it to keep it from closing, and two others found the object they were searching for. The fingers paused for a moment still within the pocket, holding the object delicately between them, taking in its smooth paper like texture; the familiar texture that brought reassurance and, a sense of comfort to the owner of the still stalling fingers.

 

I shouldn’t do this! I promised him I would quit!  Screamed the voice inside the owners head, but his body screamed in protest, and the hand slid out of the pocket, slowly, shakily making its way to the lips of the owner. With the thin papery object pinched between his lips, his hand once again plunged into the same coat pocket. Once his fingers brushed up against the cold metal object they wrapped around its body, and brought that up to his lips too.

 

One hand brought the lighter up to the cigarette, and touched it to its end; the other guided the lighter downward about a fingers length, making sure it was close enough to the cigarette. A small flame kissed the end of the cigarette, and brought it to life.

 

The hooded figure slouched against the wall, and took a long and deep drag from the cigarette. His body loosened up from act; he seemed to melt right into the wall.

 

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How could you think this will solve anything? You made a promise…

 

The hooded figure slid the sleeve of his right arm up, only a couple of inches above his wrist, and felt for the familiar object which always slumbered there. Slowly he ran his fingers along the tiny rounded beads of the chain, and found his way to the two rectangular objects attached.

 

“You don’t understand how much I miss you Mirko, how much I need you.”  A soft voice with a touch of an Italian accent whispered to the sky. 

 

“I‘ve done something terrible, something I can’t fix. No one can fix it.”  The figure sighed, and took another drag of his cigarette before speaking again. All the while, his fingers delicately traced the name etched into the small metal rectangles.

 

“The blood of an innocent woman stains my hands. She was such a sweet woman, she was different then the others Mirko. She loved me like her own, really loved me, she wasn’t afraid of me…. She was so good to me, and I …I killed her Mirko!”  The figure cried out, balling his hand into a fist, and clenched the dog tags to his chest.

 

“How many more will fall by my hands before I can gain control? Mirko, I can’t let this happen again, I won’t let this happen again!” The figure said, standing up, and reaching into his other pocket.

 

“That’s why I’ve decided to join you Mirko, that way it will be impossible for me to hurt anyone else.” The figure said, pulling a flask out of his pocket.

 

“I know I’ve made a promise to you all those years ago, but I’m sure you won’t mind one last cigarette…one last drink?” The figure asked. Removing the cigarette from his lips, he allowed his right hand to flop to his side, the cigarette resting between two fingers. His other hand tightened itself around the flask, pausing for a moment then, slowly opened its lid. He lifted the flask to his lips, and arched his neck as he took a deep swallow of the clear liquid. The figures face contorted from the bitter taste of the alcohol but, he savored the way it burned his throat as it made its way to the pit of his stomach. Immediately a wave of warmth washed over the figure, putting an end to his shivering from the cold.  

 

“I will be with you soon brother.” The figure whispered, pushing himself from the wall, pocketing the flask, and stamping out the cigarette. With his left arm outstretched, he drug his fingers along the wall as he walked, stepping to the side every so often to avoid running into dumpsters, and various other items you would expect to find in an alley way.

The figure walked with a steady pace, taking a drink from the flask every so often.

 

The figure had made his way out of they alley, and down the road, constantly keeping contact with the wall, as it gave him a better idea of where he was.  

 

You can’t do this! What would Mirko think eh? He’d think you were a selfish b*****d, wasting your life like this!

 

As the figure walked the sound of passing cars pierced his ears, letting him know he was getting close to the road. He stopped for a moment and, took hold of the dog tags around his wrist once more. He unwound the chain from his wrist and held it close to his heart.

 

“The only thing I regret is never being able to enjoy one last sundown. It was in a book you read to me once.  I can’t remember its title, but there was this man who was dying and, his wife sat there with him in his bed, facing a window and they watched the sun go down together. When the sky became dark, the man took his last breath.” The figure paused, and took a deep breath before continuing.

 

“Will you watch one last sunset for me brother?” 

 

The blind boy walked straight into the busy street of New York, allowing the speeding cars to decide his destiny for him, his last sentence still ringing in the air.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[lynne]

This was very well written, and I enjoyed reading it. Good job :)

[YouoweYoupay]

"A moment later, and a small flame kissed the end of the cigarette, and brought it to life." I just LOVED the metaphor here. Wonderful, but if I were you, I'd take out the "a moment later" part, it makes your sentence more polished, and since we all know the flame glows a moment later at the tip of the cigarette, that information was unnessessary.

"The figures face contorted from the bitter taste of the alcohol but, he savored the way it burned his throat as it made its way to the pit of his stomach. Immediately a wave of warmth washed over the figure, putting an end to his shivering from the cold."

Very nice. I've never in my life tasted alcohol and your description was so perfected I almost felt the bitterness of the drink go down my throat.

"The blind teenager walked straight into the busy street of New York, allowing the speeding cars to decide his destiny for him, his last sentence still ringing in the air."

I did not like the use of the term: teenager" here, because it just sounds too modern or closley related to present-day pop-culture, which slightly ruins the depth and melancholy of the story. And although it implies a certain age group of the character, I would have used a word like: young boy, or youngster.

As for the title, I would suggest: One Last Sundown.

All in all, a very well-written and sad story that I can safely say has caught my attention and left me wanting to know more. You're an inspired writer, keep it up! 70.