A/N: Welcome to my first full-length Skittery fic! I write mostly in Spotland (get it? Spotland? Scotland?) anway. This is a really fresh fic and I don't anticipate it to be very long. It's just a little something to get me through my holiday breaks from school. So step into (my perspective of) Skittery's dark, twisted, and bitterly humorous world of secrets and mayhem and one uncompromising broad that leaves Skitt dumbfounded and stuttering. Onward to the fic and don't forget to review your pants off.

It ain't like I didn't ask for this. I knew right after I met her that I'd end up like this.

"I'm givin' you till a the count 'a five, 'Hattan."

You can't possibly imagine the sound of a man's crumbling dignity unless yours has once been compromised like mine. And with the barrel of a gun pressing methodically into your temple, your own hot sweat coating the circular edge of it, hallucinations are about the only thing you can hear anyway.

Heavy impatience envelopes the sigh of my soon-to-be murderer. "One…"

At this point I try thinking myself away from the situation at hand. I wanna drown out the auditory illusions of my decaying pride and manhood. But if I convince myself that I'm already dead then it ain't gonna hurt as much, right? It's inevitable anyway. I'm done for.

I listen to the wind and feel the sun on my face and catch the rain in my hair…

"…Two…"

Goddamn, in the deepest corners of my mind I'm a pansy. Wind? Sun? Rain? I got a fuckin' pistol to my head and a lunatic ready to blow my brains out and make wallpaper out of 'em, and here I am imagining I'm high on fairy dust.

"…Three…"

Jesus. You'd think I'd be making my peace with God right about now but all I can see now is her face…I should want to imagine me knockin' her solid and throwin' her unconscious body into the river. But honestly when I see her face in my head it makes me wanna rest her head on my chest and untangle her auburn hair.

There I fuckin' go again with the pansy stuff. Some broads'll do that do you. Turn you into a pansy wishing that, more than anything else and especially more than getting ready to meet your maker, you just wanna hold her hand and hope the sun's out when you wake up next to her.

"…Four…"

At the mention of the next-to-last number my heart rate suddenly jacks up. Okay, now I wanna punch that broad in the face real goddamn hard. I open my eyes for the first time -- semi-disappointed not to see her standing in front of me -- but I do hear the gut-wrenching sound of this guy cocking the trigger.

Shit. He's not fuckin' around. He's really gonna kill me.

He repositions himself, ready for the big show.

I'm dead. By the time he counts to five I'll be dead.

"I wish we coulda worked it out, Skittery…" he says.

Me too. Last breath. Me too…