A story written as a co-creation, three paragraphs at a time.
The moon was shining fiercely, more intense than any full moon he could ever recall. It was almost blindingly bright. Of course, he had never taken in the moon from his back, lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.
“At least I can still see it there,” he thought, breathing heavily. “That means that I’m still alive.” But the swirl of the night’s events was overtaking his mind like an out of control carousel. The party, the jokes… who was insulted? Who started screaming accusations? “Why did I run?” he muttered. Nothing made sense.
He needed to be clear, clearer than he had ever been in his entire life… the life that now hung in the balance.
Slowly he turned his head to the right and the movement made him grunt – excruciating pain, bolts of white flashes of that fierce moon like a rocket into his pulsating brain. The need to start assessing the reality of his situation was necessary but not tempting.
Memories were starting to line up in a more orderly fashion and he didn’t enjoy the way that the scenery unfolded. ”Oh no,” he whispered. ”I didn’t say that, did I? Damn that Tequila…”
He could barely open his eyes, if he remembered it correctly there were a couple of terrible blows to both eyebrows and the swelling was troublesome, to say the least. When he finally got his vision under control – he gasped for air.
Pain wracked his chest. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, and he began to choke. It was strange to hear your own death cry. He always pictured his final sound as a rebel yell, not this strange gurgling sound. He rolled over, agonizingly slow, and continued coughing up blood until only dry heaves remained. He spit the remaining blood out of his mouth and dropped his head to the dirt.
“Are you done yet? That’s quite the death cry you had going there. Leave it to you to die in the dirt, choking on your own blood. Though from the looks of it, I would say you don’t have much left in you. It’ll save me the trouble of killing you.” Though the voice was melodic, the words were cold steel.
Holding his rib, he struggled to his knees, gasping for breath. Dark hair covered his proud defiant eyes, but not the familiar smirk. A silver 9 mm handgun touched his forehead. He didn’t recognize the gun, but he knew its owner. Tequila, the woman who had started this whole mess.