Scribbles

The Real Enemy

The Real Enemy


Rolan tightened his lips and resisted the urge to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He’d been waiting a lifetime for this moment, his stomach was turning and twisting and aching with emotions that confused him.  

Maxime had missed on purpose.  

Rolan had watched him flick his wrist at the last moment making the bullet miss by nearly a foot.  

The young man forced down the bile taste in his mouth and licked his lips. His arm was trembling, but he wasn’t about to put down the gun. It was a trick. 

Wasn’t it?  

Why wouldn’t Maxime White kill him if he had the chance? But the old man just stood there. Eyes widened, looking at Rolan’s eyes. Searching.

Did he think that Rolan couldn’t do it? Did he know about Rolan? That he had never wanted to kill?   

Rolan gritted his teeth. It didn’t make sense!  

Maxime had the chance to kill him! Had Rolan right where he wanted him! Hadn’t he?  

Rolan’s finger on the trigger was tightened like a welded bolt, but the young man couldn’t move it. It only needed a little pressure and a millimeter of movement. Maybe less.  

Maxime’s eyes moved from the gun back to Rolan’s face. He lips moved, and the words he muttered seemed to form Rolan’s name. Rolan’s full name.  

The young detective narrowed his eyes… eyes that were unmatched colors – blue and brown. 

Just like Maxime’s.  

Rolan squeezed his eyes shut then forced them open with a determined grimace. The old man wasn’t going to escape. He would never run off again.  

Rolan had never wanted anything more than to face his uncle, the man who had killed his father – his own brother – then watch the life drain from those eyes.  

But Maxime stood there. He didn’t seem to want to move. He just stared at Rolan. Waiting. Waiting for it all to fall down on him and crush him.  

Why had Maxime spared him twice? Why had the league sought him out to train him? They were the ones who told about his identity. His relation to Maxime. Who were the strangers that had saved his life? Why did he only have a few vague memories of his father?  

The bricks fell one by one causing Rolan’s heart to pound so hard and so wildly that it seemed to stop all at once as his blood drained to his feet, and everything went black. 


Photo by GR Stocks

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Scribbles

Constellations

Constellations


I glanced across Joe and Sam, over to her window where I could see she was tracing constellations with her finger. She said the names so quietly that they emerged as a little more than a breath.  

“Hannah,” I whispered.  

Her face turned to me, eyes round and mouth partially open. I’d caught her by surprise. 

“What do you see? I only have a view of trees from my side.”  

She smiled and took off her bulky, dark rimmed, unfashionable glasses to point to them. I didn’t get the clue.  

“What?” I whispered. Joe stirred and mad a quiet snoring sound.   

What? I mouthed again.  

Her parents had put Sam and Joe between us because we’d been bickering over who got the window seat overlooking the ocean. Of course Hannah got it, and I’d rather be next to her than at “the other window seat” which was apparently just as good. Instead, her brothers got stuffed between us, because Joe refused to move unless Sam came with him, all because Rachel, the oldest, didn’t want to sit next to us. She had a seat to herself. So, I was stuck next to Joe who I “bickered with” way more than Hannah. Oh well.   

Hannah rolled her eyes but continued smiling and put her glasses back on.  

“I saw glasses,” she whispered.  

“No constellations?”  

“Yes, a constellation. Just because Socrates or whoever didn’t draw it in his map of stars doesn’t mean it’s not up there. They didn’t have glasses back then to even know what a constellation of glasses would look like.”  

“Do they look like your glasses?”  

“No, they’re way uglier than mine.”  

I laughed. Joe growled under his breath and elbowed me.  


Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash

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