So Drop Your Gun - Prologue - Part 2
So Drop Your Gun
Prologue
Part 2: 1 year prior to the story's beginning
Walking. Walking in the rain.
He'd been this way before.
Walking in the rain.
Water had soaked his hair, so that it hung limp and sodden in his eyes and down his neck. His ears flicked from time to time, spraying droplets crosswise through the rain, but it was, of course, no use considering the downpour. His t-shirt was pretty well saturated, and his shoes were full of water, and squished with each step, squeezing water out of his socks. The hems of his jeans had begun to get wet as well, but as of yet he had not considered going somewhere to escape the elements
He was cold, but would not allow himself to shiver properly; he repressed all but a slight tremor with gritted teeth. The feel of the rain enveloped him, the sound of droplets striking the pavement, the sidewalk, the metal roofs of parked cars and the mud in abandoned lots. The smell of rain washed away everything else his sensitive nose might have told him. All there was, was the rain, soft and clean and blank, save for soft whispers of plants and earth. The roadway was deserted, there had not been a passing car for twenty minutes. It was night, and the sky was dark, but the streetlamps, spaced-out as they were, offered enough light to see by, and he lingered in the dark patches in any case.
Feeling the cold rain bite into his skin, he remembered what it was like to freeze to death.
Pausing in the darkest space between two lamps, Tristan looked slowly left and right, raising one hand in an automatic motion as if to sweep his hair out of his eyes, though his fingers never touched his wet fringe. There was no one here. To his right, across the road, was an empty field of tall grass, fenced in with a high chain-link fence. To his left was another such fence, and beyond it, a vacant lot strewn with debris and lit by a single halogen lamp. In the fence, just beyond the rusted hulk of a car from the mid seventies, a huge tear twisted the metal links apart.
The wolf slowly approached it, smiling bitterly, wondering if it had been re-created or if the lot's negligent owner had just not gotten around to repairing it yet. His hand went slowly to his waist, and from seemingly nowhere drew a gun, cold steel shedding cold rain. Cold hearts... Cold thoughts... Cold blue eyes looked through through the tear in the fence, size-twelve workboots stepped over the jagged, twisting edges. His shivering had stopped now that he held his gun, a fine shadow of distance falling over his thoughts.
There was no one here. Not even the homeless came here anymore.
No one knew he was there.
His hand trembled.
Slowly, hesitantly, his mouth opened. "You... must be lonely, eh?"
He'd never spoken to the dead before.
Tristan slowly, almost fearfully paced across the lot. There was no way to tell exactly where it was anymore. But he knew. Knew it like he knew the scars on the back of his hand, like he knew his own reflection.
He shivered suddenly as he stared at the ground, shivered in his thin, wet t-shirt. He should have brought his jacket.
Staring at the ground, he could remember strong hands, warmth, in the shadow of the rain.
"Here, kid...Best I can do..."
"I'm sorry..." he muttered. "You wouldn't like me being cold again."
He shivered once more. "I never said thank you, did I?"
Silence met his ears. There was only the rain.
"I should have realized... I wouldn't always have someone to lend me a jacket."
He smiled a little, grimaced sickly, swallowed nervously.
"I... came back to say... I've learned now. I'm not looking back." He swallowed again. "I... I'm going to go now, so... I probably won't see you ever again. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you'll have to be alone now. But... I thought... you'd like to know... that I was able to go somewhere." Tristan looked around the deserted lot again, then sighed and raised his gun, clicking off the safety. His eyes were solid and clear as he looked down at the angular piece of metal lying innocently in his hand.
"I've... never fired this... since you gave it to me. It's still the same bullet. The last one. I... think about using it a lot."
The wolf trembled, gripped the metal harder to still the shaking. "But... You wouldn't want that, would you?"
The rain was growing heavier. Thunder rolled in the distance.
Tristan looked back down on the patch of earth he remembered so well. "I've made up my mind," he said, firming his voice. "And... I promise I'm going to get on. And... so you don't have to worry..." His last words were nearly a whisper. Raising his eyes, the young wolf looked up to the dark clouds above him, his shadow strange and frightening cast in the orange light of the streetlamp.
Lightning flashed through the sky. In one movement, the wolf raised his gun and fired.
The bang of the weapon was muffled by a great crash of thunder.
Tristan looked down, to where the bullet had plowed a hole into the dirt. "There's your bullet back... So I can't use it... So now you can rest in peace, because you know I'm really going to go on..." He smiled. "I'm not joining you yet."
He stared down at the ground, then turned sharply and walked out of the empty lot, sliding his now-empty gun back from whence it came. The storm intensified above him. He was completely soaked, now, but he didn't mind, didn't shiver any more.
It's odd to think... That what he would give me would be a jacket and a gun...
A jacket innocently wrapped around a kid dwarfed by it, instrument of death forgotten in its pocket...
A jacket, a gun. A wing and a prayer. Shelter... for then... and the means to fight back... when I was old enough... Shelter for when I need it now... and defence... now that he can't give me that...
Tristan valued the memories the most.