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Don't be Bored



Prompt: “A gate left open, a bookshop, gold bars.”


What a boring night.
I was walking through the park when I got the text alert. Nothing big; just a sensor alarm at the bookshop. Despite the lasagna waiting for me in the fridge at home, I decided to check it out. I stuffed my phone back into my pocket and retraced my footsteps in the snow, pulling my scarf a bit tighter as a gust sliced through the icy evening.
I listened to the sound of my feet crunching the snow. A welcome disturbance to the chilling silence that cloaked the park. The moon hid behind the clouds which gathered together for another bout of flurries. The flickering of the street lamp alone lit my path.
Not that I needed it. The bookshop had been my home for quite some time ever since I inherited it from my uncle upon his passing. He had built this place from the ground up. He prided himself in that shamble of a store. Nevertheless, I kept it afloat for his sake.
Business only just started picking up with the holidays around the corner. People love to gift books. I love their money. Too bad there wasn’t enough of that flowing through the bookshop account. More people come to sit and read than to buy and leave.
I stopped my approach, voiding my mind of thoughtless thoughts. The gate was left open, granting free access from the main street to the winding path that led up to the front steps of the bookshop. But what made me stop wasn’t the gate; instea,d it was the discoloring of the disturbed snow.
Crimson. Splattered and trailing.
I took a step forward, peering beyond the gate to the front of the bookshop. The crunching of the snow underfoot no longer was a pleasant sound.More like an invitation for death.
With each echoing footfall, I neared the gate and inspected the blood. Steam still rose from the puddle. I inspected the way the blood had dripped into the snow, leading away from the bookshop towards the alley across the street.
I sprinted towards the front door, ajar from whatever altercation occurred here. I squeezed through, trying to keep it from squealing my presence. I shot the courtyard a final glance before sneaking my way to the office.
The hum of the central heating masked my panting as I approached the corridor leading into the back room, engulfed in darkness. I pulled out my keys and phone, but refrained from using the flashlight--the lock screen offered enough illumination, just in case my CSI skills of blood splatter patterns was off. I’m only on season 13.
The office door was open. Blood stained the post, dripping like wet paint down the frame.
My breathing thinned, and my heart tap-danced within me. Neither of which prepared me for the sheer panic that overcame me when I heard a groan escape from the depths of the office.
Curse my forensic detective work.
I shoved my phone into the front pocket of my jacket and jutted it outwards in an attempt to mimic a gun. I barged in, slapping at the light switch with my free hand.
Hunched in a heap with blood soaking the carpet sat my uncle. Confusion wrestled with horror, vying for spot as chief emotion that my brain would process.
He struggled to straighten up against the wall. He cupped his side and tried to clot his blood seeping from a stab wound. With his other hand he withdrew two gold bars and shuffled them towards me with his foot, grunting at the exertion.
“What’s going on? Where did you get this? I went to your funeral…” My voice trailed off from the cascading interrogation. He raised his hand to silence me and gestured towards the bars.
“Quick, take them and leave. I don’t care where you go, but run. Don’t stop until you are safe. Don’t come back here until the police come.” He began to cough up scarlet phlegm.
“The police are on the way. The alarm was triggered. They should be here any minute.”
“Listen!” His coarse whispered cut through the terrifying silence. “The men that did this to me are still here. Take these bars and run as fast as you can! Now!”
A noise from the doorway jolted me, thrusting me to snatch the gold bars from the feet of my dying uncle and catapulted me towards the window opposite the door. Shielding my eyes, I raised the bar against the glass, spraying shards everywhere. I hurdled through and bolted for the door.
Hellish shouting erupted from either side of me as I ripped open the door, stumbling down the steps. I felt a knife whiz past my ear, impaling a tree as I barreled by.
I’m not sure which came first, but flashes of blue blinded me; explosions of gunfire deafened me; frigid snow burned my face as I lurched forward onto the ground.
A pain throbbed in my shoulder.
I rolled over and scanned my surroundings with tunneled vision. My lungs refused to function as my body froze.
A hand jutted into my view. An officer helped me to my feet, offering muffled assurances that the intruders were no longer a threat.
I looked down to where I fell onto the gold bars. I patted my shoulder--no gun shot, just a bad bruise.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
What a boring night.

-(c) 2020 Kevin Barrick

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