Dead to Rights

“Don’t move!” she demanded, pistol squarely directed at him. She breathed, the rhythm of the air moving in and out the periphery of her focus. The man before her was far more important. There was a shiver. An admittance to the fear hidden under her flesh. She didn’t want to pull the trigger.

The man stood still. The gravel under his feet felt the pressure of being ready to move the man towards the woman. To attack. His anger was there right below the surface, but there was no way that he could let it out.  She had him dead to rights. And though he doubted that she would be capable of pulling the trigger, he could not test it. Not yet anyway.

“You think you’ve won -”

“Shut it, old man,” she interrupted.  “This is my right.  You cannot take this from me.”

“Fuck your rights,” he snapped at her. “You don’t have shit. I built you. What you are, you owe to me. I own you.”

“No,” she replied. “You don’t own me. You never had.”

“That’s what you want to believe-”

“Enough! I am leaving. You won’t have me any more.” Slowly she backed away. But as he reached around to cure himself of this problem, she saw it, and fired.

He dropped, a yell of pain surging between his lips. “You bitch!”

All of the fear left her when the bullet flew from the chamber. All doubt vanished. She no longer feared him. With a slow, deliberate action, she stepped over and pushed the old man over to the ground. Fear erupted from his as he fell over. “Please. Don’t.”

No words could express it. She pointed the pistol towards his temple and fired again. It was over.


Flash fiction written by Jeremy C Kester
©2017 Jeremy C Kester – All Rights Reserved.
Please do not replicate or use without written permission from author (seriously, just ask). Linking to this page is permitted.



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