A Beautiful Madness by Lee Thompson

Author:Lee Thompson [Thompson, Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DarkFuse
Published: 2014-06-06T23:00:00+00:00

Twenty

While Nick’s wife made him bleed to show him that she wouldn’t be pushed around or cheated on, I whipped the Porsche into my dad’s driveway with the headlights off and parked next to Andrew’s car. The pistol lay in my lap, a heavy piece of death constructed for that one purpose and I swore that if anything had happened to my brother, I would put every one of the fifteen bullets into the Wolverine’s chest.

A light glowed in the living room. I stared at it and beyond for a minute, waiting to see if anybody moved inside. The front door was shut. The house was quiet. I called Andy’s name as I ran up the steps, across the porch and threw my shoulder into the door. It flew in, unlocked, and bounced hard off the wall. It took me a second to catch my balance, raise the pistol, and curse myself for running clumsily into a space where the Wolverine could have been waiting for me.

My eyes couldn’t adjust to the gloom in the hall fast enough, my vision spotty from glancing at the lamp in the living room for a full minute before coming inside. Sweat coated my skin. My gun hand trembled.

“Andy?” I said hoarsely, noticing a patch of darkness on the floor down the hall, halfway back toward the screened-in sunroom and the kitchen. I could see the dark, wide lawn out back, hear my rapid breathing though it sounded distant. I shuffled forward, raised the gun, pointed it at the steps off to my right, the living room to the left, the hall leading back, until I drew close enough to see my brother lying there, unmoving, on the floor. It looked like he was sleeping, and at first I convinced myself that he’d merely passed out, fainted possibly, due to all the stress of what was going on. If anybody was susceptible to caving under the pressure, it was him. I knelt next to his body. “Andy?” I said, gripping the gun too hard, a stabbing pain in my guts. His eyes were open, staring at nothing even though they were looking right at me. I waited for him to blink as I said his name again, holding his warm hand.

“Please,” I said, “don’t.”

No pulse tapped at his neck or his wrist. His body was still slightly warm and I expected him to smile like this was all just some big joke. I wanted him to, desperately, even if it scared the shit out of me.

“Come on.”

I pressed my hands to his breastbone, one over the other, thinking, Maybe it’s not too late, maybe I can get his heart beating, get him breathing and the paramedics can sustain him long enough until they get him into the hospital.

I pressed hard once, putting my weight behind it, felt his chest compact, watched a spray of blood jet from a wound, nearly straight up toward the ceiling before splashing back down over his torso and over my arms and hands.

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