Notorious

Warning: Mentions of murder, mentions of firearms

I’m not a bad person. At least I wouldn’t say that.

Anyone who’s made me out to be as troubling or insufferable as they have is, with absolute certainty, vigorously incorrect. I am a man of pure brilliance, only I can shamefully admit half of my potential has been wasted. Wasted as I sit slumped against this very bed frame, packed with the disheveled sheets that smell strongly of the hotel I’ve accidentally found myself in. Much worse, wasted as I let the once neatly trimmed stubble on my face grow endlessly and as I rot in an outfit that’s got to be at least two days old. That doesn’t make me any less of a man, anything closer to the brink of the negative rumors I’ve accumulated through the perspective of others' eyes, propaganda I will never fall into as long as I breathe.

The hotel I’ve found refuge in is small, definitely dainty, so much so it automatically passes the human eye without a thought. In other words- it’s unknown, perfect for someone like myself, my situation much more so. My room is simple enough, the front entrance opening to a once neatly folded bedspread with flowers of light colors decorating the duvet, and to the right a restroom, guarded by a large oak door. The warm lighting, emerging from a singular lamp mounted next to the bed, possesses a strange aura of comfort. Nonetheless, my mind stays locked on one single thing and one thing alone- the time.

My gaze stays glued to the clock before me, mounted on the plain white wall just beside a small window I’ve long since covered and coated with everything imaginable, completely obscuring both ways of visibility. Just how I want it, no, just how I need it. The clock, with its ever-moving hands, reads exactly 11:54 pm. If I am not mistaken, I believe it’s a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday. It doesn’t matter now, for either way I’ve overstayed my welcome and the big man himself will bust down this door any second. It’s too late to leave, to change locations, yet too early to decide my fate. I’ve got one shot at survival, quite literally, that being the small revolver I’ve got hidden under my bed, just inches away from my grasp.

My figure isn’t noticeable from immediate entry into the room, my body contorted unnaturally just so my head goes below the mattress, giving me plenty of time to arm myself. If I were to tell anyone my whereabouts, questions would immediately arise, and it would be necessary to explain. If I were to do something as idiotic as that, I don’t believe I know what I’d say. Someone wants to kill me, perhaps. It’s not a lie in itself, nothing but the truth.

My old employer wants me dead, and there’s a plethora of reasons he may want such a violent, disgusting thing. The first, the most reasonable by far, is that I was once his paralegal, working directly beneath his command during his attorney days, and I had tampered with evidence, heartlessly pinning the crime on his final client. The second is, well, I lied whenever confronted, but he could always tell based on that certain glimmer in my eyes and the way my fingers would curl. He always knew me well, certainly better than I ever knew myself. A shiver goes down my spine at the mere thought of such a thing.

I simply wanted the man to drop his career, thus releasing me from mine, for I was sick of the job, sick of the life it had forced me to live. I hated the grueling work, the lack of publicity. I never represented much in trial myself, just worked silently under him as I was expected to. I wanted to be free, and ironically, I’ve got anything but liberty now. Still, I don’t believe I’m a bad person, and if anything, I just made a mistake that backfired far too much. Truthfully, it wasn’t my fault his career went downhill, much less his public image being completely shattered.

Mr. Franklin Callahan has been tracking me for weeks, monitoring my every move through a proxy I cannot understand, nor predict, a truly terrifying feud. Franklin has made it very clear he will stop at nothing but my blood, and I don’t entirely blame him though I know I should. I don’t want to harm him, for part of me still has a soft spot for my old buddy, but I know I may have to. No, I know I will have to with all certainty.

Overall, I can say that the majority of my paranoia has run out, especially since I got my hands back on this revolver from a friend. I find it funny how I didn’t tell the said friend my situation nor my location, essentially why I desired the gun, or where I planned to go next. The answer was simple enough- I didn’t know where I was going to go after here, and my indecisiveness has come back to screw me over. Maybe if I knew another place I wouldn’t be in such a terrible predicament in this scrawny hotel as I am now. I know one thing very well, and that is that Franklin has no regards for his life after his perfected image to the general public went rapidly downhill, and he has less for mine. One of us isn’t going to leave this hotel tonight, and I can’t place my bets on who.

11:57. The minutes tick by so quickly, but yet also like centuries. I expected him an hour ago, but here I am, continuously waiting. I wonder if this is exactly the game he wants to play with me, and if so, he’s doing it perfectly well. I assume he awaits my fear, which is the one thing I won’t give to him. I’m ready, I’ve been ready for days. I keep my eyes glued to the clock, my hand already reaching back under the bed to fondle the small handle of the revolver. I know it’s flawlessly loaded, I’ve checked twice. 11:58. I bite my tongue, swallow my saliva. All thoughts of my self-pitying and my horrid appearance leave my mind. I realize I’ve been holding my breath, and I let out a necessary exhale. My mind blanks for the remainder of the passing minute, just until the clock hits 11:59. I grip the handle tight, feeling the cold metal against my palm. Midnight.

An eerie silence erupts throughout the room, so quiet the only thing I can hear is my faint breathing and the air conditioner. I feel a smile etch itself across my face as I slowly rise to my feet, leaving the firearm under the protection of my bed. I’ve given him plenty of days, and if I’m familiar with a man like Franklin, I know he would’ve arrived by now. Despite my false certainty my joy is short-lived as I begin to pat down my polo, flattening all ruffles, when I hear three crisp, absolutely jarring sounds bounce off the walls and into my ears like a siren. Three knocks. He’s here. 12:01.