The Arroyo

I’ve heard it said many times in movies and television shows and even in real life; that when someone is killed by a bullet to the head they didn’t feel a thing.

I call bullshit.

I heard the snick of the trigger and clack of the hammer, then the sledge hammer impact slamming down on the crown of my skull.  I felt the bullet sizzle through my brain and explode the roof of my mouth, that impact sending a shockwave up through my nasal passages blowing my eyeballs out of their sockets.  I felt the heat of the bullet pass through my open mouth, searing my tongue before shattering my front teeth and passing out of me to impact the clay below.  To a witness who hadn't heard the shot it would have looked like I spat blood, shattered teeth, and a lozenge of lead onto the ground below.

My body carried momentum of the impact, pitching me forward into the arroyo, my boots dragging on the steep slope, flipping my body so it fell headfirst into one of the deep narrow cuts in the chaos of the water-carved canyon.  It wedged tight there, head down, legs askew, a wash of clay and sand coming loose and flowing like a mockery of water to dust my clothing.  Nature was camouflaging Razor’s crime.

The next time a raging storm sent rainwater rioting across the upper bench it would tear more of the walls apart and cover my body better than any gravedigger.  I would never be found, a permanent part of the desert I dreamt so often of leaving.

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