Sniper sequel

A cold breeze, warm sunshine and the sound of tweeting birds, a comfort the sniper had missed greatly. It’s slow and soft caresses on his skin and quiet stillness a contradiction to the world he had become accustomed too. He stood in the street in front of his Mother’s house breathing in his surroundings, reaching into his pocket he collected his faithful packet of cigarettes.

A smile crept over his face, he realised this was to be the first cigarette he had had since the war broke, that he would be able to smoke completely. Reaching again into his pocket he withdrew a box of matches, struck one, lit his cigarette and inhaled the biggest drag he had ever managed. A satisfying feeling grew over the sniper, what unhealthy bliss he thought to himself as he exhaled.

He sucked again on his cigarette, to find himself back on the rooftop near O’Connell Bridge reliving his horrible memory of the mortifying ordeal. Again he raised himself to peer over the parapet and again was nearly met with what could have been a fatal bullet to the head.

The sniper shook his head vigorously, wishing the flashback away. As he came too he realised he’d sweat through his good suit, the suit he had specifically put on to cheer his Mother. A bead of sweat rolled over his brow and down his cheek to rest on his freshly shaven chin.

The breeze cooled him as his body shook, the realisation of what he was to tell his Mother froze him in fear. A fear unlike the one he had experienced away, he imagined the pain and disappointment in his Mother’s eyes as he revealed to her the truth. How could he possibly tell his Mother that he had killed his brother in cold blood? A pain shot from the wound on his arm and then numbness.

The sniper finished his cigarette viewing the neighbourhood he’d grown up in recalling the childish things his Brother and he had gotten up to on O’Riley and O’Grady Street. How innocent the world of a child was. Slowly the sniper descended upon the house his mind racing through the possible scenarios that could follow.

The sniper knocked the door gently, wishing his situation easier. Nothing, again he knocked louder and was soon met with an invitation to enter. He wearily entered the room still not certain on what he was to say. He shortly found his Mother in the kitchen her back to him making a coffee.

Without turning she offered the unknown someone a drink. The sniper stood silent behind her, his eyes watering til a silent single tear fell on his left cheek. His Mother had not changed, she was still the same trusting and friendly person he remembered. The war had not changed her... Not yet.

His Mother sensed the apprehension of the visitor and turned in curiosity to find her eldest son strong but torn by the war. She ran to him and embraced her child, how she had longed for his return. She cried into his chest, his arm, their joint pain and relief unbearable. They spent what seemed like hours locked together wishing never to be apart. Finally they managed to separate and they sat together in the lounge to discuss the past over a tea.

The Mother spoke of how things had changed, the divide in the town, friends lost and despair. The son saw the pain in his Mothers eyes, how much she had suffered. He spoke of the war, the heat, the sound, the terror, his Mother listened anxiously on the edge of her seat. A single question lingering on the tip of her tongue, where was her youngest son?

The sniper ended his grotesque version of the war and turned to grab his Mother’s hand, the hand that had soothed his pain in the past. If only it were now that simple.

He told of how he had met his Brother or rather his Brother’s rotting corpse. But he lied, he told his Mother he had tripped over a corpse trying to escape a sheet of bullets. As he hid he noticed something very familiar about the body, and yes curiosity had killed the cat just as someone had killed his Brother.

His Mother broke down into tears she had lost a great deal due to the war but this, this was inconceivable. The sniper sat silent unable to cry, unable to move, the numbness had returned, his blood seemed to drain from his body. He became very pale and then his blood came quickly flushing back over him like hot lava the burning from the guilt overwhelming.

The Mother looked up to find her only son wincing in pain, this saddened her greatly as she wiped her tears. She consoled her only living son and sent him to rest. The sniper was grateful for the solitude and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

That night he again found himself at war, only this time he could see his brother’s face as he pulled the trigger and was pained as he watched his Brother fall. He again went to see the face off his victim, as he turned the body to look into the eyes of his Brother he was shocked awake... It was not his brother but instead he that had died, he was the corpse.

He woke to find himself again sweating, his arm throbbing from his wound. He turned to view his clock that his Brother had bought for his birthday three years ago to find he had only slept an hour or so. The sniper became mad that he could not sleep and feeling guilty he threw his clock at the wall. Is this what the rest of his time would be like?

The sniper managed to fall back to sleep after a couple of hours awake staring into the past replaying in his mind. But had dream after dream of the same scenario with the same ending, he was dead. When the sniper awoke at the break of morning he rose. Quietly he moved through the house as not to wake his Mother. He dressed and collected his trusty cigarettes and matches to walk the town.

Things seemed different, colourless. Yesterday was so bright, it had bared the hope of a new beginning, were as today was gloomy and eerie. The sniper sat under a tree near the bridge he and his Brother had spent hours playing near. Memories flashed from when they were kids, laughing, chasing one another, playing guns and then back to the war and again he pulled the trigger.

Bang! He focused. He lifted a smoke to his lips and lit a match. As he inhaled he noticed a strange taste, like gunpowder. The gunpowder he had used to kill his Brother. He dabbed out the cigarette and started home.

The sniper found himself revisiting his same steps daily, he walked to that same tree reliving every moment like the first time. The nights were the same with the same dream and every time he turned the corpse he woke staring into his own invalid eyes. With everyday the sniper grew more depressed, the world seemed darker, his Mother continued to mourn, and with every passing moment of seeing his Mother grieve the guilt became stronger. The sniper had become a ghost of the man he used to be, haunted by his Brother’s death and the lie that he had told.

Until one night the sniper awoke from the worst dream yet, this time when he is shot by his Brother in the arm he falls from the roof and is injured. Unable to move he lay on his back reaching for his gun. Hearing footsteps he manages to cower behind a trashcan only to find his Brother and the old lady coming for him. As they approached he realised the old lady was actually his Mother. They descended upon him and his Brother lifted his gun and shot him.

Shocked the sniper got out of bed guilt-ridden and began writing a letter, it was to his Mother. He explained what had really happened at the war between him and his Brother and apologised for his ruse he had not meant to hurt her and was a coward. He also told her of the hardship he had faced since returning home. He told her he loved her and signed the letter with the intent of leaving it on his bed for his Mother. He sealed it in an envelope and placed his and his Brother’s dog tags on top.

He collected his cigarettes, matches, pocket knife and gun and left for his tree. The world seemed brighter, as he walked the street the same tweeting he had heard when he arrived guided his steps with a song that sounded melancholy. He sat under the tree and pulled out his knife, with it he engraved his Brother’s name into the tree. Then he pulled from his pocket his cigarettes and matches. As he smoked his last cigarette he felt nothing, no taste. He then pulled his gun from his pocket as he polished it he thought of his Brother and his Mother.

He then stood, turned and faced his Brothers name he saluted and pulled the trigger.