Chameleon Pistol

It was a golden afternoon. The sun bared a gentle glow on the stretch of emerald green. Trees wrestled against the breeze; the stranded leaves, shrivelled with auburn, danced to the jolly weather. The road was silent and empty, with the exception of a lone vehicle that would stroll along once in a long while. It was the perfect time for a leisurely walk, a lemonade stand, and play time for the kids, as well as for the dogs.

Yet not a single soul roamed the peaceful neighbourhood, as if their dull hackneyed walls were more pleasurable than the scenic luxury the day has presented itself enticingly with.

More space for me, I suppose; more space, more tranquility. Void of the hustle and bustle of common folk, I, with my bicycle, beaten up with memories fond and foolish alike, wheeled towards a nearby bench, a sweet spot for taciturn thinkers and patient on-lookers. Resting my two-wheeler against a sturdy tree trunk, I dismounted comfortably and went to sit in quiet contemplation.

Not a single soul... Not a single--bam!

An ear-piercing bang split the through the innocent clouds. Time entered a lull as I felt a tug at my chest. Suffocated in shock, I stood motionless, unable to gather my head. Only after briefly surveying my surroundings did I sense the undying pull around my heart. Red; the stains that slowly saturated my old white tank top, like a canvas being painted by an invisible brush. My legs extended themselves to an upright position before collapsing. A tall, sinister silhouette blocked out the sunlight, and before I could clap eyes with the strange figure--BANG!