Vigilante.
The word still hangs on my lips as I stare at the bloody mess before me; the 9mm shaking in my hand.
Mess. Trash. Descriptions for this tattooed punk that my mind was using just minutes ago when I watched him beat a man to a pulp in an alley. I had just watched. Just as I had done a hundred times before. Frozen in fear like it was me under attack. I watched this punk, this gangster, punch and kick an innocent man into a bloody mess.
But this time was different. Inevitably, I did work up the courage. As I followed the gangster onto the busy street, I finally did it. It happened so suddenly, I hardly remember dodging into an alley to pull on my ski mask, or cocking my pistol as I trailed behind him.
But taking aim, that was slow. I can remember each detail, the way the gun metal felt in my hands; the tension of the trigger; my eye looking down the sights. A gentle squeeze followed by a BANG! And without thinking, I added another BANG!
Now people scatter around me, calling 911 and trying to put as much distance between me and themselves as possible. They don't understand that I am their protector. That I would give my very soul to save them, the innocent. They just see a ski mask and a gun. I look like another one of them. Trash. Mess.
And despite the two bullets, he still isn't dead.
In the movies and comic books, he would already be dead. His kind always dies. Just one bullet and life leaves the eyes of the irrelevant. Only the important ones hold on. The nemesis with big plans and lots of history. This one, he isn't important and he shouldn't be here. He should be dead.
My gun waivers and my vision blurs behind my mask. This feeling must be my soul leaving, my price to pay. An offering to the god of justice who I now serve.
The gangster moans.
Comic books and movies never focused on this part enough. The dirty part. The decision about whether or not to finish the bad guy off. I try to process it like killing an injured animal. A beast that needs to be put out of its misery. But as I ponder this, sirens blare in the distance and the gun shakes in my hand.
I had to get close, real close. My hand was shaking and I couldn't afford to miss. Just feet away and aimed a pistol that shook badly, an aftershock of the earthquake within me.
I try not to think as I pull the trigger one last time and run.
