If You Knew Me

Fingers - A Short Story

He closed his eyes again. Why was he here?
He tuned out all the noise- the screams of pain, the screams of terror, the screams of the lost, the screams of the mad, until all he heard was the beating of his heart pounding in his ears and through every fingertip.
He felt his fingers curled around the barrel of his gun. Instead of living in the present, where the bombs ruled him, he went back to the past, when music had ruled him.
He saw those same fingers, less worn and dirty. He saw them stroking the ivory keys of his Baby Grand; he saw them composing symphonies; he saw them clasped around the fingers of the woman that he loved.
He saw those same hands, once long and slender, covered with the blood of women, children, innocents and enemies. He saw those hands willing to do anything to survive.
BOOM.
A bomb exploded next to him, knocking him off his feet and propelling him back into the real world. He realized he was the only one standing in the sea of blood, smoke and broken fingers.
He grabbed the first thing that he saw in the rubble, a metal rod, and ran to the nearest shelter, a house in ruins from the bombs.
He saw his fingers wrapped around the rod, ivory white with fear. He saw his fingers swing the rod into the skull of the enemy who had just invaded his hideout. He saw his fingers grab the pistol from the fallen man.
He felt horror fall on him like rain. What had he become?
Bombs rattled the structure, and it threatened to collapse on him. But he didn't care. He stood still, looking down at his hands, covered with the crimes of the unseen and visible.
He saw his fingers, broken and bloody, and remembered how they used to be.
He saw his fingers wrap around the pistol, and bring the gun up to his own forehead. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't see see them pull the trigger.
Black.