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The last thing she remembers hearing is the way her keys sounded. The rustling of fabric, jeans that haven’t been broken in yet, still stiff and resistant to a hand being shoved in its pocket. He drags her keys out from that front pocket. He lets them fall through his opened fingers like sand. Carelessly. Metal clinks against the laminated countertops. A drop of blood rolls out from his open mouth and falls down to keep the shiny silver company. His loud and heavy breathing is exchanged for a loud and beeping dial tone as she places her call to 911.
The last thing he remembers hearing is the startled gasp she makes. The small flicking sound her hair makes piercing through the air. She’s turning her head as fast as she can in the opposite direction. The single percussion sound her hand makes as it rushes up to clap over her mouth. To him, those noises are just as loud as the muffled sound in her throat. She's trying to hold back her tears.
The last thing she remembers saying still echoes around her mind. Haunting her. Dead to me. She can feel the emotions trapped in her voice. Temporarily shocked into frozen silence. She's numb. The fallen leaves lay soundless underneath her shoes. But the muddy dirt clutches at her heels; trying to drag her back down to the earth. Then a release as she steps onto the cement. Dragging her muddy heels slowly across the solid surface calms her. She can walk easier, untethered. She can breathe now. The anger starts rising in her throat, the pleading is steady in her mind, the annoyance growing on her face, the expectation still mounting in her heart. Words start forming in her mouth, on the tip of her tongue. Then there is a bang.
She gives in to the pull of gravity. What’s the use in fighting? She’s only a wave, crashing against a lonely road.
The last thing he remembers saying is now echoing through the hollow trees. He speaks without moving his lips and it’s sharp, loud, cracks like thunder. The sound of a bullet slamming itself free from its cartridge, pushing through flesh and bone, spewing out blood from anything that dare get in the way of its path. It’s louder and more powerful than any words he could ever utter.
What good are words to him, anyway? Dead men don’t need to speak.
The last thing she remembers seeing is his motionless figure silhouetted against the night sky. His palms opened. The gun, now, hanging loose by his side. The wind blowing gently behind him, moving his hair and jacket ever so slightly in the breeze. A white skull reaching across the expanse of his chest. A shadowed face with an unreadable expression. Peering down into the alley where she stands. Then the slow deliberate turn away from her. She stares up at his turned back. His jacket billows out behind him, beckoning out to her. It's the only part of him that tries to move towards her. Every other part of him moves away. In the blink of an eye, all that’s left on the roof is scattered clouds and the few bright stars peeking through them.
The last thing he remembers seeing is a countermove in his peripheral. Many bodies ducking down and a single body standing up. He lets his gun fall to his side, turning his full attention towards her. Everyone around her is trying to make themselves smaller but she stands taller and taller. She cranes her neck up. To look up at him. Moves her mouth to speak but the word doesn’t reach his ears. She is so small from this distance. Her golden hair and pale skin sharply contrasting against the grey pavement. The cop cars surround her, their lights flicker, giving her a makeshift halo. A lone woman in the center of all the light. Steady and strong her feet stay rooted in the same spot. Never taking her eyes off him. Face still upturned, searching for something. A movement in his peripheral, a man bending down, catches his attention. The spell is broken. He turns his back on the crowd slowly. Staring down at his feet as he walks away. Watching each step he takes. With every step, they take him further and further away.