Remember Mayfield: A Short Story

One never fully gets used to waking up to the taste of blood.  It floats and dilutes in the mouth for hours.  The iron in the blood separates and runs over the taste buds; the taste of pennies.  You don’t realize it, until one moment the synapses in your brain decide to let you know.

Even before you open your eyes, you run your tongue over the corners of your mouth.  The dried lines of blood reactivate and the crusted gash that once sourced it open up again.  This one’s probably worse than all the others before.  It’s going to be tough to eat for a while.

The morning dew and dirt painted the entire left side of my clothes a darker shade of what they once were.  While I pat myself off, I feel something in my breast pocket.  I already know what it is before I reluctantly reach in and grasp the handle.  Reluctance never changes anything.  Ever.

I open the chamber and there they are again.  5 bullets and and empty chamber.  I reluctantly check the opposite breast pocket to find the notepad with the same instructions, only a different name.

DON’T BE MISTAKEN KILL JOHN TALBERT REMEMBER MAYFIELD
Sanction Order #4643

Reading this makes me wince and I feel the gash on my lip tear open and run warm.  I guess today’s just another day.