week 3

tony gougeon

The tall man arrived from the end of the street in the dark hours of the morning, his businessman suit freshly taken out of its plastic cover in the wardrobe. The scents of his cheap aftershave being violently pushed against the walls of the towering buildings clashed with the gentle smell of the cold air. Suddenly the familiar noise he hated so much came back to his ears, as if his mobile phone was deliberately attempting to slap him in the face every minute. ‘I know I’m late, just leave me alone!’ he thought of telling his boss, but he decided against it and just left the phone ringing aimlessly. He quickened his steps and finally arrived at the middle of the street. He stopped a minute, gazing at the empty bar that had been full of life only a few hours ago and seemed now so dead, just like him. He had been alive too, until a few hours ago. Everything had been going along as he had planned, and he had thought for a brief amount of time that he was one of the luckiest men alive. Now he knew it was over. He had decided to act as if nothing had happened, as if it was a normal day. Go to the office, have a loud argument with Mr.Dowell, grab some lunch with his colleagues. He was now arriving near the big road, aware of every detail as if this could possibly be the last time he was seeing this street, its houses, its bar and all the bright coloured cars meticulously aligned. He turned around and faced the road: everything was still asleep, unaware of his distress. A few cars drove before him, to which he did not pay any attention. One car brought him back to reality, the white and the yellow raising the alarm in his mind. The police car slowed down and he felt the weight of the two men’s eyes on him as they drove past. It was too late, he thought. They would drive back and pick him up. He turned around and started running down the street. He hid behind the bar, trying to stop his heavy breathing from revealing his location. His phone started ringing again. He took it out of his pocket and smashed it against the wall of the bar. His hand was shaking, and yet, when his fingers gently embraced the cold metal of the gun in his jacket, he was calm. He knew what had to be done.

I woke up in a very good mood this morning, playing my favourite song as I stepped out of bed. After a quick shower, I went out to go shopping. As I opened the front door, I was hit with some unusual agitation outside. Police cars everywhere, journalists, a shocked lady.

-He shot himself a few hours ago, what a sad story, just here on our street!

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