Dead Wrong

It was getting late, but neither of us could slink off to our respective beds just yet. We’d been embroiled in a duel that had lasted all afternoon. Passions were high, and a winner had yet to be determined. As I continued to observe my rival, I noted with grim satisfaction that he was visibly tired. I was, too, but I was still capable of hiding my fatigue. Hopefully, the difference would mean my victory—but only time, and luck, would tell for sure.

Up until now, we’d been trying to decide the fight with swords. But he was too fast, and I was too determined. So, useless, our swords both lay in the perfectly manicured lawn—sad, discarded monuments to the violence of our feud. Meanwhile, we decided that the final outcome could only be determined via the use of firearms; and six-shooters were our firearms of choice.

His revolver, a custom, looked to be designed more for appearance than for pragmatism, which was a surprising contrast to his more taciturn personality. My own weapon was spartan by comparison, totally unmodified from the original. Still, I kept my observations to myself, and we both loaded a single bullet into each of our guns in silence.

The time for acerbic repartee had long passed.

As one, we assumed our positions opposite each other, just six paces apart. Our stare-down persisted. 

Then, suddenly, one of his sheep let out a startled bellow; and we used that as our signal.

Click, his gun sounded first.

Mine answered, Click!

Together we shared a brief moment of mutual relief. 

Then, click-click! Both of our guns continued their still-innocuous symphonies.

Click-click!

I gained confidence with every unsuccessful round.

Click-click!

I felt looming victory in my bones: my rival would die by my hand before the sun set.

Bang-click!

There was an instant of stunned silence. Then, dead wrong about my victory, I felt the bullet hit my chest, right over my heart.

In slow-motion, I fell down onto the cool grass. 

Pleasantly surprised, I closed my eyes in surrender to the feeling. There was no pain. There was only relief.

Blackness consumed me.

Silence.

Death.

Then: “Madeleine… stop being so dramatic.”

I opened my eyes and laughed at my rival, my friend.

Sitting up, I picked up the Nerf dart where it lay on the lawn beside me. I could hear his family and friends sharing my laughter across the yard on the back porch. I grabbed the hand my friend held out to me, and let him pull me back onto my feet. He playfully shoved me, teasing me about my antics, and invited me to race him back to the porch with a tilt of his head.

Wordlessly, I accepted the challenge, and we ran back to the porch as the sun finally went down somewhere behind us.