Monthly Short Story: April

Story Prompt:

You develop a sixth sense. Every person who has ever killed someone now has a bright crimson aura that only you can see.

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There it is again! That rising crimson mist that radiates from any soul who has killed another. Somehow my heartbeat pounds louder than the clacking subway. I try to tear my gaze away, but it is so much easier to stare while hidden in a sea of people.

Picture By Andrea L

 I have lived with this vision for three months now. Cops, doctors, veterans, and everyday people involved in accidents are haunted by it. Some seemed weighted down, others numb, while a few were at peace. Most of the auras I had seen were a dull fog.

But this was different. This aura flickered like a flame, engulfing the killer. The middle-aged man leaned motionless against a pillar, eyes closed. His off-white shirt is untucked and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. His tie and jacket hang over his broad shoulders as if he just came from a business meeting. How many lives had he taken? Were they all deliberate?

Without warning, Mr. Executive’s eyes open and he begins to turn towards me. Desperately, I try to look as preoccupied with my phone as possible. The mesmerizing red light still dancing at my side, I moved back only my eyes. To my relief, the Mr. E is only answering a phone call. I breathe again.

The man hangs up, his every movement steady and calculating. Before he returns to rest, he scans the area as if looking for something. His next target maybe? This time I maintain my gaze. If he follows someone, perhaps I can save them. But if he follows me… such a thought sends my pulse into overdrive. I dial 911, thumb hovering over the send button.

Mr. E stops before his eyes meet mine. His expression turns tense. Suddenly, here reaches for something at his side. A GUN? Here? Now?!! I cover my ears and move to duck behind a trash can. From the pit of my stomach, I yell...nothing. My nerves betray me. My dry throat can’t even manage a scream.

“Get Down!”

Confused commuters freeze.

BANG!

Screams ring out and everyone finally obeys the anonymous command. Behind cover, I am finally able to pinpoint the gunshot. For the first time since I entered the subway station, I completely forgot about Mr. E’s blazing aura. Ten feet away from me, a teen steps over a body. Goosebumps prick up my arms as a deep red mist seeps from a human who was normal seconds ago. Twitching mercilessly the teen swings his rifle around like a toy.

“Drop the gun kid!”

The sight of Mr. E lost in red and pointing a pistol twists my gut.

The young shooter smiles. “Make me.”

With the eyes of a man drunk with power, the teen sways the barrel of his rifle to his objector, Mr. E. His aura snaps to a brighter red as his finger reaches for the trigger.  BANG! BANG! BANG! Blood drips from the teen shooter and his mighty gun. The mist fades with his soul as his body thuds onto the floor.

Everyone in the station is now as mesmerized by that middle-aged man as I was. Steadily, he tucks his pistol into its holster. As he returns to his post against the pillar, his aura rises higher and grows a deeper crimson.