Author's Note: Yes, this is an extremely grim story. I also had too much fun with tense and POV. Please let me know what works and what doesn't.
Summary: There's no dignity in this kind of death.
Rating: FR18/T (for swearing mostly, and violence)
Genre: Drama, experimental fiction
WARNING: Character death; DARK
"Three Widths of a Hair"
There's a small moment that occurs right before you get shot in the head.
It's a one-time experience. A simple thing, really.
It's not the last forty-five years of your life. Five hundred and thirty nine months. A whole lot of days. So many days. Some of which you probably wasted. You don't have time to do the math right now, and you've never been good at that anyway. No. The cliche life-montage moment comes after you're already dead, after the bullet has already smashed through your thick head.
But you won't remember any of that.
You'll be dead, dead, very dead.
This moment is different. It spans roughly three widths of a hair. It begins when the muzzle of the gun is aimed right at your face. It's gonna mess you up. And you think: "Shit, this won't be pretty." The bottom drops out from your gut. You piss on yourself out of blind fear or surprise or because the first two shots that knocked you ass over tea kettle were simply for target practice. You can't feel anything. You might as well close your eyes, but you don't and you won't.
You should have taken that extra minute in the shower. Should have taken the scenic route. Should have eaten two cream-filled doughnuts instead of one. Should have done any number of things to make your last hours worth it. Were they worth it? You hadn't known you'd be dying today.
You should have worn your vest.
But still you're thankful. Better you than the others. You've served them for the last time.
You're useful. Mostly. Even if there is no dignity in this kind of death.
You breathe in, you breathe out. The blood that hasn't already leaked from the couple of new orifices pounds in your ears. You're twitching, shaking. Grass. You're in the grass. There's a pair of dusty combat boots nearby. You wait.
Three widths of a hair. It's all you have. Enjoy it.
Someone speaks, voice faraway and foreign. "Sorry buddy."
You look up and out, but you can't see a damn thing.
A man had been dumped not even fifty feet from here. One shot to the head, small caliber. Two to the body, rifle rounds. He was sprawled on the gentle slope that ran away from the highway. The buzzards had to be chased off. They flapped their wings, pissed. Three remained on a nearby tree. Up high, black against blue sky. Patient. They turn their heads, left to right to left.
The highway easement had to be searched, yellow tape had to be strung, markers had to be placed while the body was removed. Overgrown and weedy, the expanse of grass extended towards a dense belt of trees. Grass hoppers strummed, traffic whipped by from the highway above, a hawk screamed. Oily heat sank from the road and collected in the ditch.
Summer was in her full, heady swing, and the air was heavy and hot.
Barely fifteen minutes on the scene had everybody sweating. They traded water bottles and panted as the brutal sun beat down on their backs.
"I can't stand this thing." Bishop pulled at the vest clinging to her body.
"Then take it off," Tony suggested as he took off his hat, wiped his face, and put it back on backwards.
McGee held a sweaty bottle up to his lobster red face. "Nobody can stand them."
"This guy's buzzard chow," Tony went on. "What, you think the killer's hanging in the trees?"
"DiNozzo," Gibbs called from a distance. "Go search, will ya?"
Bishop turned to McGee. "Should I take it off?"
"No. Keep it on."
Tony spends a moment on the ground wondering how the fuck he's gotten there. He can't feel a thing. His brain is miles behind the situation. He hears boots near his ear. He opens his mouth and begs.
Begs.
"Fuck. Don't. Please. Don't."
Two words, spoken in a whisper. "Sorry buddy."
"Don-"
The mercy Tony finally receives is a .45 round to the head. Expertly aimed. An execution.
Afterwards, it's like nothing has happened. Except for the yelling, shots coming from the far side of the field, and the dead agent curled up in the grass.
The sun smiles from above and begins to dry the blood spatter.
He did as he was told. He searched. He took a circuitous route that brought him near the trees. He'd start here, and then track around in a grid-like pattern, looking for dropped items. Anything. A glove, wallet, gun, keys. He had done this dozens of times before. Hundreds, probably. He hoped a dog was on the way. A good dog trained on dropped articles could search an area this size in a matter of minutes, rather than hours. The underbrush was impossibly thick by the treeline. Anything thrown in there was as good as gone.
He kept his eyes to the grass. He paused for a moment, peering through the blinding sunlight at a discarded bag of Funyons wrapped around a bottle of piss yellow liquid. There was rustling nearby. He looked up. Had to be a squirrel. His hand twitched.
Too slow.
Crack, crack.
Gibbs remembered the small things first. Things that were startling in their insignificance.
The birds, rousted violently by the first rifle shot. Vivid black on blue. Feathers and leaves left behind, helicoptering towards the ground.
How hot it was. Not a single cloud for miles.
Looky-loos crawling by on the highway.
He didn't remember running.
Lights, sirens. But there wasn't any need.
One look and Gibbs knew the game was over for DiNozzo. Beyond over.
It takes him weeks to remember other things.
Like the way he grabbed the limp form by the shoulders and shook it violently. Like the way he howled in his face. Crazed.
"Don't you fucking dare!"
But the gunshots.
He'll always remember the gunshots.
Crack, crack.
The buzzards explode from their tree. They took to the sky, soaring in lazy, concentric circles.
There was a heavy thud.
Harsh, stunned breaths.
Steps that came quickly.
Swearing.
"Fuck."
Begging.
"Don'-"
"Sorry buddy."
Pistol raised, carefully aimed.
Pat.
"...there is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun..."
He has the radio on low. The old thing crackles near death. The basement is no place for decent reception.
One bandaged hand cradles a new cell phone to his ear, as the other hand inspects the edges of the dollhouse he's been constructing. It's time for details. Stairs, a miniature banister, tiny spindles, shutters, cabinets, a fireplace. Things of this nature. Small but important things.
Someone picks up on the fifth ring. He waits. Waits for a repeated "what?" to come from the other end. He's using this time to figure out what to say.
"They got 'im," he finally says. "Filling up at a Citgo station in North Carolina. Thought you'd wanna know." Gibbs isn't much of a talker. Never was. He allows the silence to grow around him. It's been growing for days.
Now it's oppressive rather than a relief. "McGee?"
The answer is resolute. "Good. I hope he fucking burns in Hell."
It's strong language for McGee, but it's fitting. Gibbs is about to say as much.
But he doesn't get the chance.
"Don't call me again," Tim says. "Please."
"How much time you gonna need to-"
Beep, beep. Call disconnected.
"-get your head on straight again?" Gibbs finishes under his breath.
Forever, maybe. He can accept that.
He tosses his cell phone aside and refills his dusty jar. A couple fingers of the good stuff.
Grabbing a small tape measure, he starts planning a stairway for his dollhouse.