November 12, 2019

Maybe Next Time

posted on: Thursday November 16, 2017

bank vault with crime scene tape

Photo courtesy of wordpress.com

by Jay Willett ’20

 

“Damian! They’re here! Damian!” Alyssa screamed over the bank’s sirens. I tossed aside the weeping attendant and ran for the glass door. Blue and red lights flashed across the Roman marble, blinding me as I peered from behind a column. The ride we had left on the curb was missing and was replaced by blaring police.

“Where the bloody hell is Jacob?!” I hollered at Alyssa, as she shuffled the remaining pounds into the duffle bag.

“Gone! The bastard got up and left us!” her voice cracked. Alyssa tossed me the bag and I reloaded my pump-action shotgun. The first shots were just warnings, nobody was supposed to get hurt, but these next shots I knew would count. Alyssa took cover beside me, gripping the .44 magnum that she had stolen from her father.

“We’re actually going to do this, huh?” she smiled through her panicked tears. I smiled back, having one hand on the gun and the other in her warm hand. We were just two kids running from the past, our parents, and relentless society—the whole bloody lot. As cliché as it was, we felt pride in being the British Bonnie and Clyde.

“Come out now kids, let’s talk about this, huh? Damian? Alyssa?” the megaphone roared over the alarm. I didn’t want to look back out around, all I wanted was to spend the rest of my petty life crouched and looking into her blue-eyed gaze. Oh God, how I wished time would just take a break and let us freeze for a while longer. Alyssa’s tears hit the floor, and against my own will, my body positioned and fired the gun to shatter the glass. I scowled and felt my life’s frustration release along with the trigger.

Troopers yelled, the first bullet tore open my shoulder, the second pierced my abdomen. I reeled backwards, laying upwards as Alyssa’s sobs grew louder than the troopers’ footsteps outside. I smiled when she brought her face close to me, I wiped away her tears and parted her long hair around her ear.

“Look at us,” I chuckled, our hands still together. She smiled through the tears and held my hand up against her cheek.

“Do you think we would have ever made it?” she asked.

The marching footsteps grew louder.

“Maybe some other time, Lyssa.”

The sirens tuckered out, the silence of the hall left only her soft breath and the marching soldiers audible. God, I loved her so much. She leaned down and kissed my bloody lips. That was the worst kiss we had ever shared, but it was the best all the same. They probably saw Alyssa’s pistol, because the guns rang through the silence and entered our hearts.

Yeah, I thought for the last time, maybe next time, love.

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Short Fiction