No Last Words

The alleyway swings into a corner of the warehouse but my guess about the windows is moot. They’re all still open. An old rusty light hangs over the wall and illuminates the dumpsters that are around back. And there I see the kid. There’s Jacob, lying in a pool of blood, stiff as the wall he’s up against. The cell phone is in his hand. I just stop, at first. Just sit and stare. Death. His arms are twisted around something and his face is turned away from me. My grip on the gun goes slack. I lean against the wall across from him and slide to the pavement, still trying not to look at him. No. Please, no. The image of that noose I should’ve been dancing around comes to my head and a part of me wishes I’d gone ahead and saved myself the suspense. I fumble for my cigarettes. I finally look back at the poor kid, the kid who was dead because I had told him to chase anything strange. For some reason, I suddenly think he’s going to get back up. I mean, there he is, dead as can be, and it’s like my mind doesn’t recognize it. He’ll stir and we’ll call the ambulance and everything will be okay. At the very least I could get some last words. He could tell me it was okay, that it wasn’t my fault and that he’d be fine. I could tell him I was sorry for yelling at him. Oh God, I’d never even apologized for yelling at him. Nothing but his stiff corpse and me puffing on a cigarette that are killing anything now. I take a drag. “Along with everything else,” I mutter. I should’ve saved myself the damn suspense.