Through the Heart

I drove home that night. Or at least with the intention to. Halfway there, I decided to just drive and see where I ended up. My mind was racing and I felt like I needed to clear it.

The night was clear, the road empty and free as far as my eyes could see. With no destination, there really was no seeing where the end was. I just drove.

The lamps that shone over the highway created a rhythmic pattern for my eyes to follow. My eyelids began to droop from the hypnosis of the passing lights.

Losing myself in my thoughts, I noticed a scarf on the passenger seat. I reached out and grabbed it. I felt the material, soft and delicate. My hands returned to their place on the wheel, scarf still in hand.

Just as I felt like I was in a hiccup in time that created some slow passing moment in my mind, I noticed a bright light in my rear-view mirror. It was so bright, suggesting that the car was rather close. In fact, it was getting brighter, as if speeding up right behind me. Noticing this, I switched lanes to let whoever behind me pass. Instead, the driver mirrored my lane change. I proceeded to switch back, only to be mimicked in turn. The driver sounded his horn, suggesting something wrong.

In a confused naivety, I slowed to a stop.

Foolishly, I stepped out of the car to confront the situation.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

The man approached, but silent. He wore a long dark trench coat that appeared old, ragged and weather beaten. A wide brimmed hat covered his eyes, and a cigarette dangled from his mouth. He stopped about ten feet from me.

I stood frozen, unsure what I was waiting for.

He began to murmur something, beneath his voice. He pulled back his coat, revealing an old revolver.  This muffled dialogue cleared, directing toward me. “People act like this is a game. It’s not. People get hurt. It’s a war. You need to fight for it. And when you have it, don’t you dare take it for granted.” I was still confused.

As he clasped his gun, and stared me down, I caught a glimpse of a tattoo revealing his name. It was wrapped in a pair of wings.

He noticed where my eyes focused and gave a devilish smile. “Not what you expected?”


“Sorry, no cherubim or choir of angels here.”

His barrel still smoking, he gave me one last glare. Then walked away, leaving me on the ground, gasping for air.

I had just been shot.

By a man named Cupid.


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