No Victory

by Michael Sutton

 

With the eye of an executioner and the intention of the same, he watches from his post, claws dug deep within the grain.

 

I cower behind my refuge of torn drapes and broken blinds, awaiting his next move—though, really, I know he has none. A prisoner behind my own door I remain until he deems me worthy of the courtesy of isolation. My eyes open each morning with that constant hope but close each night with inevitable disappointment.

 

My shotgun holds just a single shell. Its twin evaporated in a cloud of smoke weeks prior. A wasted shot—a foolish shot. A mistake I wouldn’t make again. Still, I hold the stock, stroke the metal, and silently dare for him to come closer, close enough, one more time.

 

I believe he hears my challenge, though he would never comply—not after his last attempt. Black feathers stain the empty sky, casting the deformed shadow to the dirt below, challenging me the same. I dare not.

 

On occasions, I humor the idea. Rip open the door, throw myself to the porch’s floor, and allow my nemesis to do his worst. But I’ve come to a painful realization, and I refuse to allow him to win. It’s no moral muse, but a voice of pride that keeps me from the gates of Hell.

 

My lungs breathe in the stale air trapped in my cabin. The soft click of the latch creeps beyond the walls as the barrel lifts the metal hook. I decide to accept his invitation, but only if he’ll take mine.

 

The barrel props the door open. Light pierces the room. My eyes squint, my hands tremble in the unfamiliar rays of the blistering sun. He repositions himself, startled by the noise. He smiles; I mirror him.

 

Within seconds he is airborne and barreling towards me, ascending upon his prize—claiming his victory, though victory will not be his.

 

I place the gun in my lap and throw both of my arms to the side to wheel my chair through the door. The wheels stop inches from the steps.

 

I shoulder the shotgun. Aim in his direction.

 

A cry leaves his chest—a laugh in the wind.

 

“You’ll miss again,” he taunts, grin baring fangs like knives.

 

But I won’t.

 

He is close enough now to count his feathers. I pull the barrel away from him—his head cocks to the side midflight. The cold metal presses under my chin. I smile above its picket.

 

He cries out again, this time a screech for me to stop.

 

But I will do him no such favor. He deserves no kindness, no pity, and above all—

no victory.