Jim And His Brother
The reds and blues reverberated around the neighbourhood, lighting the nearby houses in the quiet little town. One house was lit by several spotlights, like God's finger was pointing at the yellow bungalow while a small army of police surrounded the home.
Jim looked around, and knew the end was near. He stood motionless, gripping the pistol tightly in his hand as he watched Pirates Of The Caribbean on the television. Across the living room, the furniture tipped over, he could see his brother laying in a pool of his own blood. Looking over his shoulder he could see the reds and blues flashing through the bullet holes in the picture window. Jim looked back to his brother, unfolding the events that had just occurred.
Glancing through the doorway into the kitchen he could see empty rum bottles. They lay on their sides like dead soldiers, what little blood remained dripping on the floor. The two wooden chairs were upside down, one with a broken leg and playing cards littered all over the place.
Jim flopped into the wingback chair, his body numb. Everything was playing out in slow motion. There was a heavy hand pounding on the door.
"Police!" said a voice.
"Why is the rum gone?" whispered Jim to his dead brother.
2 March 2014