Trigger -= Short Story/One shot =-

"...The head premier is visiting today -"

"....weather is fair, with light snow. Today's a little cold, with a wind chill of four degrees in the north -"

"...The head premier's announcement is scheduled at Two o'clock this afternoon. Much of the country will be watching the Premier delivering the speech, and calls for the end of martial law- "

"...protesters were arrested this morning in response to the call for ending negotiations with...there is no word on..."

Nothing mattered.

Here in this shabby white apartment room, where I laid down on the pale leather couch that faced the open window that let the snow from the outside enter, nothing mattered.

Not the pale, peeling white wallpaper of this decrepit place that someone would call home. The simple wooden table, with the complimentary bread that had gone hard from the bitter cold that leaked through the windows.

Or the tan curtains that begun to fade and discolor from age,  let what little sunlight, blocked by the gray clouds that hung heavy over the city trickle through. The small flakes of snow that fluttered around like many white butterflies, landing softly onto the wooden polished floor, where I gazed at my own, distorted reflection and the small flakes.

Nor the news on the battered television across the room, where the images of the oppressed flashed before the viewer.

The images of the protester, dragged onto the hard cobblestone wet streets in the pouring rain, Covering his hands over his head as red blood poured from the head wound as the black clad police officers delivered blow after blow with no mercy.

The raw, pixelated, old videos taken from cellphones of a conflict that carried out, beyond the shores. A conflict, puppeteered not for the sake to restore justice and peace, but a war to restore reputation, power, influence.

Nothing mattered.

I glanced at my watch. A simple  gold wristwatch, the screen with cracks like many spiderwebs. The red second hand, with it's sole purpose of life, to tick away, to have one purpose.

Like me.

It was time.

With my right hand, I groped for my rifle, feeling the perfect curves of the polymer black rifle blindly. Smooth and sleek,  with a scope that had a lens that glimmered when it caught the sunlight . I let my right hand slide down the body of the rifle, feeling the smoothness of polymer, and the coarse, yet comfortable grip of the rifle.

I held my rifle. The rubber butt of the rifle, nestled between my arm and my shoulder, felt soothing. My right index finger rested calmly along the curvature of the trigger, my palm pressed against the sandpaper-like ,yet comfortable grip of the handle.  I allowed my left fingers to pull the bolt from the arm of the rifle, hearing the subtle sound of metal on metal. So faint, it sounded like two papers rubbing against each other.  My left hand reached into my jean pocket, and I felt the warmth of leg for a second, warmth from the cold around me, before feeling the smooth bullet casing.

I pulled the bullet out of my pocket, and glanced at the bullet for a moment. 

The perfectly cone bronze bullet, not bigger than a finger, rolled in my palm. I felt the cold of the bullet along my palm. The casing that enclosed and nestled the bullet, distorted my reflection.

How extraordinary, a bullet the size of a finger, could end a life so precious, for so little.

That in my hands, I determined life or death. 

That today, a man who was just like any other, who could have been like any other man, has become important.

That I, today, will take away that importance, to end the life of a man who held many in his grasp.

Was I to be the bringer of death? 

Did I have the responsibility?

I would ask myself those questions. But now, I have an answer, in this final act to take a man's life.

I am not the bringer of death, I will not take his job in deciding who lives in who dies.

But I am the bringer of justice, and I shall make a martyr of  those who deliver the injustice of mankind.

Nothing matters.

I stopped my muttering and questioning. I let the bullet roll out of my palm into the empty chamber, it's gaping empty slot like a greedy mouth that was eager to be filled with bullet after bullet. 

But today,

today,

there will only be one.

My left fingers touch the cold metallic, perfectly spherical, round arm of the bolt, and listened to the same, soft sound of metal.

It comforted me because now, there is no turning back.

For I have sealed his fate.

I closed my left eye, for perhaps, the last time I shall on this earth. 

I allowed myself to collect my thoughts, as I felt that sensation of my left eye closed, the soft eyelid that I would never have cared in my previous years.

Through the scope, I peered into the distance. 

The snow continued to flutter because of the wind.

But that did not matter, because I saw him. 

There, at the intersection of the cross of my scope, he was lavished in the leather black coat that shielded him from the cold and stood like the martyr he would be. Captivating a crowd of people, holding onto his word as if the words he created were the sacred words forever to be lost if not remembered at the moment, and to be sealed in the people's memories.

I paused.

It was not the moment.

This was not the moment.

I felt the wind begun to pick up, the cool wind flowing through my body and throwing the snow in a flurry. This would only be a minor setback, as I allowed the rubber butt nestled between my shoulder and chest to slide down, and adjusted my aim. I felt my teeth chatter, but only for a moment from the cold.

The cold did not matter. All that mattered was the moment.

And so, I waited.

My right trigger finger begun to merrily tap against the cold metal of trigger. A stopwatch that ticked the time away for the martyr. That at anytime, it would strike the stop, and so would be the end of him.

Then, the moment came.

Like glory, like the transfiguration of the Angels, like the acceptance of the Truth, it came.

The martyr spread his arms wide, and gave the contorted face as if he cried for a demand. As if he truly wanted justice.

As if for a moment, he understood I, and I pitied him.

For his arms were spread out like the holy crucifix, like the cross I aimed at him. 

For now, he shall truly be remembered as the Martyr.

I took my final breath of purpose, and felt the icy air course down my body, the chill of the wind down my throat.

I felt my heart, calmly beating in my chest.

Man's internal watch, that would now and forever, beat always.

 I pulled the trigger.

For now, and forever, nothing mattered.