Controlled Assessment Task: CONFLICT commission for a Creative Writing Website
Discordant Supremacy
The smile spread across his face slowly, his fingertips pressing inquisitively to the stain of blood spreading from the bullet wound in his chest. The sound of the gunshot quickly followed, making his ears ring with a delightful sickness and causing his knees to buckle. Head rolling back, he sank to the floor, placing his palm over his heart and tapping out the throb on the floor with his free hand.
Da-da-da-da. Da-da-da-da.
The pain was sharp, suddenly – a knife blade twisting deep within his chest – before dissipating into a warm tingle that travelled down though his arms. His lungs heaved, a cry escaping his lips as he slumped forward, quickly turning into a throaty laugh.
So this is how it feels to die.
Fingers still tapping the failing beat of the breaking drum in his chest, he looked up and into the face of his killer.
You…
Out of all of those to rebel, Moran had stood with him the longest. The gunman held his revolver in a steady hand, his eyes cold and his face set. Detached. Professional. So very similar to himself. But what was this? Revenge? Doubtful…
Another convulsion in his chest sent coughs raking his body, leaving a metallic tang in his mouth. He laughed through the pain. How ironic, to die at the hands of the one he'd dragged with him to the top. It didn't bother him, not really. Moran would inherit the world, his twisted legacy, becoming near enough a god.
Boring.
Of course, he had expected more from the man, but in the end everyone is human. Well, almost everyone. He laughed again – he couldn't feel his legs anymore – everyone but him. The knife twisted once more, and still he tapped numbing fingers on the marbled floor, never faltering from the four-fold beat.
It hadn't always been like this. Well, maybe it had, but everything used to be so much more interesting. How it all began, if truth be told, he had a master plan and now he ruled the world. He took them by surprise – worked his way uphill – they looked into his eyes and he became invincible. No one could stop him, for only he was in control… until now. He snorted. Inevitable, he supposed. Let anyone close and they'll stab you – or shoot you – in the back.
Dull.
The numbness was creeping slowly up his body, a contrast to the warmth spilling from his chest. Such a shame about the suit… it had been Westwood. A new spasm of laughs followed a raking cough; a mouthful of blood dribbling down his chin. How elegant a last impression he would make. He chuckled again, re-raising his head to meet the stony gaze of Moran.
"You're insane." His voice was shaken. Odd… how very uncharacteristic of him.
"You're just getting that now?" The voice was broken, but his eyes were wide and his lips pulled back over his teeth in a manic grin. Moran's jaw re-set, his grip tightening on his gun.
Holding the grin, he met Moran's eyes – the tapping beat of his heart the only sound penetrating the otherwise deadened silence of the expanse between them.
It was unsettling him, that look. How sweet. How average.
Another fit of laughing, quickly followed by deep, wrenching coughs slowly faded into silence once again, the grin still plastered on his face. It was aching now, his chest, and his breath came in rasping wheezes.
Da-da-da-da. Da-da-da-da.
The beat was joined by another sound: the steady clack of heels. Moran was striding, slowing and purposefully, across the room towards him, his pistol now by his side. Only his eyes betrayed his fear, for his face was once again expressionless.
Bizarre.
Moran had killed countless in his time, smiling as their blood spattered his tousled, blond hair as they convulsed on the floor. He was the second most dangerous man in London, after all. So why did he falter now? Oh, of course. Sentiment.
Pathetic.
Moran stopped an inch or so in front of him, blood pooling around his shoes. With a snort, he met those crystal blue eyes, relishing the fear that sat deep within them. Another laugh sent blood spraying against Moran's crotch.
Ironic. Wasn't this usually the other way around?
He quelled his laughter as the cold muzzle of the revolver pressed against his forehead, letting a wider grin spread across his face. A rush of adrenaline set his heart beating faster, matched by the rapping of his manicured nails. His breaths came faster, rasping and guttural, and he wet his lips.
"Do it." His once-smooth voice was sandpaper, but the tone remained light. Such was the game of life, as it were. The Great Game where no-one is truly a victor. You can only keep ahead for a while, and he had done so – oh, had he done so – but you can only dodge the inevitable for a limited stretch. Better he let his man blow out his brains now than eek out his years and relinquish his grasp when he was old and his grip feeble. This was more fun.
The hand on the gun shook, slightly. He sniggered.
"reluc-" he coughed, spitting blood, "-tant?" he shifted his gaze upwards, past the gun to meet Moran's eyes once more. The other man swallowed visibly.
With a movement faster than should have been possible, he raised a hand and clasped Moran's, slipping a finger over the trigger. "I'm disappointed, Sebastian"
Moran recoiled, stung. The incessant tapping grew faster.
"If you won't, I will~" and before Moran could blink, he squeezed the trigger. He fell back with the shot, hitting the marble with a wet thud; a manic grin still plastered on his face.
Moran let the gun drop slowly to his side, turning. Taking a cigarette from his pocket, he strode back across the room, leaving the body of his Master prone – the only sound the steady, four-beat rhythm he tapped lightly against his leg.
Da-da-da-da. Da-da-da-da…
Rowan Barnett