Click

A revolver jams into my ribcage. I follow it’s hard persuading. This revolver is in a hurry, destination somewhere decidedly less pleasant.

            I hold my composure together well, though rallying strength is, at times, terribly demanding. The revolver is more demanding. I trudge on, ever the optimistic one.

            The revolver urges me enter the abbey clandestinely. Footsteps resonate hollow as the revolver and I navigate amid pew backs and coffers. Reaching a door cattycorner the altar, vicariously, I open.

            We’re inside now, me and the revolver. The door shuts behind us. I feel the revolver leave my side, but now it greets the back of my head.

            Click.

            The revolver sighs.

Silence.

My ears ring.

            Will the revolver speak?

            Will the revolver speak?

            Will the revolver…