6th Floor Shooter || #Wattys2017

V

Inside of his body, Ed battled to contain his unadulterated rage. His task had been painstakingly simple, but he had managed to spoil nearly every facet of it. Defined muscles flexed below taught and tanned skin, subconsciously expressing his irritation. Grungy fingernails nervously chewed to the nailbed contracted into the gritty skin of his palms, leaving a mosaic pettern of clearly defined crescent indentations. His tongue danced through tobacco-tainted teeth, restrained with every ounce of willpower to prevent his secret from spewing through thin lips.

He tipped his head back and poured the remainder of the liquor through chapped lips and down a parched throat. He prepared himself for the wave of fire that ordinarily would've exuded throughout his esophagus, but it was barely discernable above his thrashing heart and ice-cold penitence. Glass struck the hardwood counter, not with a delicate clink, but with a heavy and resonant bash. He rose to his full height of 6'6", towering formidably over everyone else in the room.

Running a calloused palm over his undershirt to smooth the furrows, he once again caught the redolence of sweet, sulphury, metal. Have they been smelling that this entire time? Do they know I'm lying? Ed's clammy hands wrung together, in an effort to camouflage the calling card of his guilt. He brought his palms closer to his expended and weary eyes to better investigate. But, in a true Lady Macbeth fashion, the ashen grit refused to dislodge itself from his sensitive skin.

"Where th' hell're you goin'?" Jack's raw voice cracked as he called after him. He combed through a receded and continually thinning hairline in disbelief as he watched Ed slink away.

"I don' think he's the guy. Them officers don' know what they're talkin' 'bout." Bitter words stumbled from his mouth as he exited the room. If he were to receive the credit that he desired more than anything else in his life, he knew he must turn himself in. Unlike the moment in which he had actually pulled the trigger, he had no doubts about the necessity of this action.

"Wha' the hell do you mean? They would'nta said nothin' bout it if they di'nt got the right guy." Jack separated the shards of crystal from his skin, brushed the booze from his hands, and resigned that arm around the young woman's casually clad shoulder. Dressed as modestly as she was now, she stuck out absolutely in a room regularly frequented by risqué regalia. He didn't care for it.

"Jus' trus' me. That Oswald guy di'nt have nothin' to do wit' it. I jus' got'a feeling 'bout it." Broad shoulders shrugged indifferently as he continued his effort towards the door.

" 'nd how woul' you know? Wha, you know more you ain't tellin' us? I sure hope, for your own sake 'at you ain't lyin' to me righ'now. You know be'er 'an anyone how I feel 'bout liars..." Firm and commanding fingers encased themselves around his damp shoulder. A rough thumb forced down incessantly on the inside edge of his shoulder blade; the resulting stinging pressure point was enough to stop his progress towards the door and demand complete compliance. However, the discomfort was little more than an afterthought as he continued to gagged on the culpable paranoia of gunpowder... more specifically, the appalling realisation that one of the most unpredictable people he knew was now close enough to undoubtedly sense the betraying odour.

"Jesus Christ, I swear I ain't. It jus' don' make no sense... no one ever heard of 'im before, did they? 'Our country jus' don' let random commie fags shoot the Pres'dent. I won't believe it." Ed stumbled over words carefully chosen to falsely depict his innocence. His unreadable eyes scoured the room for the .38 calibre revolver that he remembered Jack having stashed beneath the table for self-defence. It remained in the very position it had been last time he had been in the club. Jack's eyes locked on it at the same time. Ed felt the pressure release from his back as he was thrust forward.

"You bet'er be honest, got it? 'cause if I don' like two things, its radical commies, and frauds. Don' think jus 'cause we go way back I'll pardon you if I ever fin' out you're either." The emotion barely contained beneath the surface of the owner's veneer detonated all at once in his solemnly unforgiving snarl of a whisper. He backed away and returned to his seat beside his employee. Heavy soled shoes shuffled over the decaying floorboards. Shuffle Thump. Shuffle Thump. Shuffle Thump.

He released a treacherous breath from unsteady lungs as the threat passed. If Jack was in any way aware of the chemical stench radiating from him, he didn't display it outwardly. But to him, it was once close encounter too many. For hours now, he had been apprehensively distrustful that the scent only he seemed to notice would ultimately betray him.

"You got'a pisshouse I coul' use to clean up a li'l bit? I should be getting' home. 'ts been a long day." Ed muttered, his tone just as disconnected as before.

"I ain't got one, but the rest'raunt downstairs got one. Just tell 'im Rubenstein sent 'ya." Jack shouted after him, but Ed was already through the door.

He traversed the staircase with ease, paying no attention to the wailing screams of the steps objecting to his weight. Now alone again, his thoughts raced like a runaway train, whirling between regret for his actions, yearning for recognition, and the inappropriate desire to use the day's events as a reason to rekindle his relationship with Verna. His determined feet carried him decisively across the threadbare carpet on the lower floor of the building, across the family-friendly atmosphere of the restaurant, and into the blinding incandescently lit bathroom.

Lukewarm water gushed through the tap as he lowered his somnolent face into the basin. Splashing the liquid over every crease, wrinkle, and blemish of his sunburned skin, he observed his appearance yet again. An almost unrecognizable, aging man stared back. Dark circles had set up their camp beneath his sunken and creased eyes, providing a new level of intimidation to his already relentless stare.

Grungy hands submerged themselves into the sink shortly after. At first, he rinsed them gingerly, but when that proved ineffective, he turned to harsh, angry strokes that brought with them a seething pain with every contact. But still, the silvery powder remained bound to his palms. Harder and harder he worked, physically tearing the cracked skin of the back of his hands. But still, he could not seem to rid himself of the damnation.

He shut his eyes momentarily to refocus his thoughts and slow his erratic heartrate. Perhaps it was due to the emotional trauma he had sustained, or perhaps it was fate, but an indistinct, nagging  concept injected itself into a miniscule sliver of his brain. Even as he attempted again and again to scour the evidence from his skin, he could visualize within his mind a scenario almost as shocking and realistic as the hallucinated gunpowder clinging to him.

He couldn't see it, but he could imagine her actions in that moment, wherever she was. Cold water splashed against her pale face, leaving wispy rivers of mascara to flow down her cheeks. As it ran through her still trembling fingertips, it damped the blush pink of her normally immaculate attire. Yet again, those marks were far less concerning than the other grotesque splatter from before. Once pristine water, now tainted in rusted crimson, lapped at the edge of the sink beneath her. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, but only for a second before becoming disgusted with the unkempt expression staring back.  More water. More red. More emotion. Her palms, now rubbed raw in her efforts at cleansing away her sorrow, felt vulnerable  without the protection of the snow white gloves . Or, maybe it wasn't the gloves, but rather the protective hand who held hers through them... She shut her eyes gently. Here in the privacy of the small  room she was able to display the emotions currently playing tug-of-war with her heartstrings, but once she stepped through those doors, she knew she must remain stoic and emotionless... because Kennedys don't cry.

And although he didn't yet know it, the blood and the brain tissue that the woman would be sponging from her skin was more genuine than only a hallucination like his, it was the reality he had created for her.