Six months ago, January 2017, Kevin Day met the woman of his dreams. He met her on a busy street. Her presence was as dark and mysterious as in his dreams. She was too beautiful for him to look away. They walked past one another. They did not speak. They did not exchange a nod or a wink or anything. She just smiled at him and kept walking. Her dark hair, red lips, and perfect skin still invade his every thought. He has tried to forget her but can’t. He has slept three hours a night since then. His dream goes like this. Enjoy The Dream. Enjoy your dreams. See you soon.
The year is 1868. We stepped out of the saloon into a dusty street. We knew one of us was not going home. She was beautiful. And, she was going home with one of us. The other one was going to the morgue. We flipped our coats back.
The moonlight bounced off of the colts in our holsters. We began to circle each other. Snarls were on our faces. Hatred was in our hearts. The snarls and hatred were for no other reasons than we wanted what we wanted and did not care how we got it. And, we were prepared to die for it.
Our hands were at the ready. Fingers twitched impatiently to get ahold of our guns. In the corner of our eyes she stood and watched. Her stoic expression willed us to go on and fueled our anger.
Under that strange, bright moonlight, something was happening. Not with the two of us, but with her. A smile was slowly spreading across her lips. She was breathing louder. A dark presence was coming over us. We felt its weight pressing down on us. It was squeezing all around us. That is when we understood it.
We knew what we were fighting for. It was not for some beauty. It was for it, for him, the devil himself. We wanted to stop. We wanted to walk away. But it was too late. He had sent an angel—a strong, seductive angel. And she was not going back empty handed.
We stared hard at each other—slowly going around and around. Not out of anger, but in desperation. We could hear each other. Break her spell. We don’t have to do this. Then our hands reached for our guns. The colts cleared the holsters. The moonlight danced and bounced off the metal. We heard a loud guttural laugh. Both barrels pointed at their targets at the same time.
We made our peace with one another and closed our eyes.
Neither one of us was going home. Not to the place that we called home. Only she was going home—wherever that was. We both had a date with the undertaker and the morgue. Our souls would belong to her.
We heard laughter when we pulled the triggers.
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