Grey hairs stood short on the man's firmly worn skull, defying all downward pull in a desperate attempt to make a name for themselves. Only a few brownish and dirty blonde streaks lay guised beneath the silver coat, dormant in old age. His hairs brushed back, thrust so by the push of a lazy wind, easy and swift in the cool autumn night. A cane teetered in his hands, swaying with each forward step, wooden and light and fragile nonetheless. Fitting, one might say, for a brittle man to establish rapport with soft possessions that did naught in the least. Our hero wore pale khaki slacks and a thin black vest, resembling in form and figure a spent shell of a man in agony seeing death. If such was the case, it would be misleadingly so.
Three knocks were cast into the door, not overdone at all. Feet could be heard clambering around inside the small apartment complex, probably still dreary from the hungry grasp of caffeine-induced comedowns and the poor eyes of three-in-the-morning naps, missing the latch once. She got it the second time, the sharp one she was, pulling back the safety chain all too nonchalantly. The man's cane stood almost rapt in attention as its owner anticipated each click of the lock in some painfully stretched-out moments of desire. This was beyond that which could be contained in the steel frame of a brown wooden door; no, it was far, far ahead of such restraints, contained only in the cold metal casing of five arrows of hurt. Unspent, the man in the vest noted, unspent.
The carpet rustled so faintly, almost clumsily with the door. Claire stood on the other end, clothed in a bright pink bathrobe tinged with streaks of light blue.
A pause followed, filled with hints of scotch-flavored breath and dashed with the taste of freshly roasted bell peppers, and perhaps even the slightest whisk of garlic and rice. It did not last long, stained as it was with naiveté and innocence.
"Emmanuel, how are you, Emmanuel?"
The man with grey hairs withdrew his loaded pistol and punched its short barrel into Claire's plump stomach. Click, boom, click, boom, click, boom, click, boom, and one could then hear in the deafening silence the sound of some brittle cane leading a delicate heart back to cold hands. Four coated metal shots stood now embedded in the fair, gravid lady. Four fair, gravid shots embedded in the coated metal lady.
The last bullet resounded in Claire's own hands, painful against her shattering skull. Blood touched Sophie's now exposed body. And if one looked closely enough, it might perhaps be noted that tears ran down the latter's cheek. Tears before life after death. Death before life after tears, preceding the warm touch of caressing hands.
Emmanuel stared from the distance, watching what remained of the scene unfold. Binoculars rested in his hands as he observed a squad of armed officers in a drunken stupor, rushing for the clarification of ethics. A crisp wind brushed by, and a certain patch of grey hairs were observed to defy the push of the gust.