I heard the click of the safety before he even touched the lever. It was then that my instincts were jolted alive, that my training kicked in, that my senses suddenly ripped out of their shells and screamed -
"Too late! Too late!"
I reacted. I spun, I kicked, I struggled, I saw the dull, black barrel aiming for my skull. The saying wasn't entirely accurate - my life didn't flash before my eyes; my errors weren't brought to the forefront of my conscious. All I could see was him, the gun, elusive, either my bane or my savior... because one of us was going to die, and maybe this one last time, it would be me. Bruised knuckles punched, body struggling on adrenaline as if in a nightmare. I couldn't even remember taking a breath. I could barely remember anything.
Gun. Gun. Gun.
And then a chance; and then the shot.
Finally, the surreal rapidity of the scene slowed enough to allow my mind to think again, me foolishly believing that my heartbeat would follow suit. Only when death thudded atop me did I inhale the bitter scope of my errors and find that everything within me - my instincts, my logic, my senses - came to a frozen halt. I suppose, now, cliches aren't entirely untrue.
For only then did I recall the click of the safety and see all I could have lost race before me into cold oblivion.