The shame about the rug

(I revised this one and decided to repost it.)

He died suddenly. His death was not sudden because it was unexpected (in fact I had anticipated it), but because of the speed in which it passed. I expected more from him. There was no staggering, no clawing at the ground. Simply a thud as he slumped forward, his blood ruining the beautiful afghan before him.

I wasn’t even sure it had happened until I noticed the pool forming around where his face used to be. I didn’t even realize I’d pulled the trigger. There was simply an inexplicable explosion at my wrist. It was deafening, like a world ending. Like there was no sound at all.

He didn’t cry, didn’t beg. Instead, he’d asked me for a smoke. Prick bastard. It’s amazing, all those jobs I’d pulled I’d never killed a man before. My hands were still shaking when I dropped the gun; when I rolled him up in that beautiful rug. It’s a shame about the rug. Some poor sap in Saudi Awherever probably wove the thing and fed his family for a year with the money, and here I am using it like some death shroud cocoon.

I should’ve made him turn around. I would’ve loved to see his face. No laugh, no punchline. Just a bang, and a drop, and a whiff of smoke.