Prompt Response #5

Here is this week's Writers Bloc prompt response, complete with random notes at the end! I think from now on I'll jot down thoughts to share with people -- mostly stuff about the writing process, conception of the plot and so on. I always like reading writers' thoughts, so perhaps some of you will be interested in what I have to say?

I responded to the prompt, "And then it stops."

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"The Fire"

The room is engulfed in sharp blue light. An explosion of white fills my eyes. Then there is nothing.

It seems as if an eternity passes, but it is only 30 years. I fall hard onto the floor; dust explodes into the air. The room looks similar to how I remember it, but it is dark and dirty. Faint streams of sunlight sputter through the window across from the stairs. A shattered light bulb hangs from the roof. The room is still. Quiet.

I hear a creak.

I reach immediately toward my overcoat. My hand hangs there for a dead moment. There are no other sounds; the silence drills deep into my ears like a poisoned needle.

I relax and look down at the watch on my wrist. It is still warm, but the hands are not moving. I press one of the buttons. Nothing happens. It is broken -- just as I thought it would be.

But it does not matter. Returning is not a requirement.

I go up the stairs. They squeak loudly and wobble slightly beneath my feet. The door at the top of the steps is open an inch or two; I grab the door knob, pull it open the rest of the way and step through.

The rest of the building is just as dark as the basement. Nobody is home. I walk outside. Clouds fill the sky, with isolated patches of sunlight pouring down upon random strips of concrete. The day is just as I remember.

I walk down the street, pushing my way past the throngs of people bustling their way to wherever they are going. The spot is just ahead -- I will get there with 15 minutes to spare. Then it is just a matter of waiting until it happens.

It is difficult to believe 30 years have passed. I cannot even remember it clearly -- the memory appears to me always in brutal flashes and spare, violent scenes.

I raise a hand to my head; a migraine is pounding as if my brain wants to burst out of my skull and run away. I bump into a few more people while I am not looking. There are some insults. Crying. It barely registers; I cannot hear it. All I see is fire, a jungle of ember and flames consuming everything.

It is too early for this. I rub my eyes with a trembling, clammy hand. Breath spills from my mouth in ragged whispers. My mind is muddled. This cannot happen. Not now.

I shake my head. Everything clears away. The world comes into focus. I can see for miles. My heart pounds. Years of work all for this moment. A single drive.

I am there. An alley is off to the side; I huddle against the wall and wait. They will be here in a few minutes. Cars fly by on the streets, their horns combining into a single, shrill shriek. I close my eyes and let out a slow breath. Calmness is key.

I lean around the corner. They are walking down the street -- a man, a woman and a boy. And behind them, there is another man, dressed in dark, grungy clothes. I am ready.

Suddenly, another headache pulses its way through my mind. For a moment, I cannot see. I lose myself to the flashes.

The gray clouds swirl overhead. A man jumps out with a knife. I stagger backward, small, frail and defenseless. My parents put their hands up. The sidewalk is painted with their blood. Two lives taken in one swift, cruel moment.

The flashes subside. The answer is still clear to me. There is only one way to repay swift, cruel moments.

I plunge my hand into my overcoat pocket and step out from the alley. People walk past me, suspecting nothing. Soon, the family approaches me. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. They stop in front of me, wary. The man and woman step in front of the child, throwing their arms around his shoulders for support.

The man behind them keeps walking. I slowly draw my hand from my overcoat. The pistol gleams in the sunlight. The woman lets out a sharp gasp and thrusts herself in front of her child. I see this out the sides of my eyes. The man in back finally sees something is wrong and slows down. I step forward. My window of opportunity is slight. I am ready.

My hands grip the gun tightly as my finger squeezes the trigger. I fire. The gun's kick shakes my limbs, but the bullet is straight and true. It enters his head and does not leave.

He staggers backward, and then, after a moment, he crumples to the ground, blood pouring from his mouth, nose and the hole in his forehead. I walk past the family, looking down at the child. His face is pale, stuck in a wide-eyed, silent scream. I turn away.

It is as if all time has stopped. Nobody dares move on the sidewalk except me. I walk up to the body and turn it over. Then I step back, raising my gun and aiming for his chest. My eyes blaze with a sudden, vicious fury. I can almost see myself in his dead eyes. I am ready.

I fire. Nine shots, all piercing his heart. His jacket is black with blood. It pools on the sidewalk and drips into the cracks.

Screaming suddenly fills my head. I look around. People have circled me. Sirens wail in the distance. Soon, a police car screeches to a halt and cops jump out, pushing their way through the people and raising their guns at me. They shout for me to drop my weapon. I do it. Three of them grab me and force my hands behind my back, cuffing them. They push me into the back of one of their cars. We ride to the station.

My case goes through quickly -- a nice, speedy public trial. I hear it all. I am a cold-blooded killer. I am remorseless. I am emotionless. I killed a defenseless man. I damaged a child and his loving parents.

I am to die.

Time passes. I do not know how much. I am walked to my death. They seat me in the gurney. IVs are attached to my arms. They swab my arms with alcohol. Then they drip the saline. Everything is good. They are ready. I am ready.

The drugs enter my system. I feel tired. My eyes are heavy. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready.

The fire dies slowly. The flames arch high one last time and then slink to the ground.

And then it stops.

---

I had the idea for this story in my head for a while, but I think doing it for the Writers Bloc allowed for some much needed focus. For example, originally I had some diatribe about how our nameless protagonist experimented with time travel, but I realized 1) It was irrelevant and would bog down the story and 2) I could never explain time travel anyway. The premise is already out there enough without me calling attention to it.

One debate I had with myself is whether the time travel device should actually be broken. Each option gives different choices. With the broken device, the nameless man knows it could break when he travels back in time but decides to go into the past anyway. With the device working, he could just decide to take the death penalty instead of going back to his time. I struggled considering which is the more powerful, frightening choice. I'm still not sure.