Shoot Her

Her gun fell to the ground like a lead weight. Like a stricken hero or a cartoon anvil, it crashed to the wet cement with a crack and the sun blazed a shadow behind its muzzle as it sat, sadly purposeless. She had no time to retrieve such armament, running across the open field she searched for a place to hide, wishing for someone to run interference, somehow hoping to escape the impending onslaught. From the other side of the tall grass that outlined the blacktop voices laughed like rabid animals.  


Hurrying to the stairwell that was fed down from the old school, she skipped up every other step to get inside before her enemies spotted her, and she knew that if they did, she would fall victim to their weapons and barbs, reduced to being another notch, a mere hash mark tallying their quarry. She frantically approached the drinking fountain only to find that it had terribly weak pressure, its spout barely able to push forth the smallest amount of water for quenching thirst, let alone be able to provide any ammunition to defend herself.  She imagined the worst, piecing together the treachery that had claimed so many of her friends; death by mockery, and paralyzed by the thought of succumbing to such a fate. However, there was this overwhelming sense of resignation, a realization that if her efforts fell short she will still be remembered as a fighter, unafraid and relentless, worthy of a legacy despite such a short run of guerilla action.


Standing in an unforgiving hallway whose hard tiles and long walls gave her no place to turn, she listened to the quick footsteps growing and slowly a smile found itself on her lips. A broken water fountain and a pocket full of empty balloons, she stood and just laughed. They were coming to shoot her.  


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