Bang.
Bang.
They always told me that the best time to do it was on the Fourth of July.
That as soon as I see the trail of light soar into the sky, I should raise the rifle.
As soon as I feel the bang rattle my chest and before the sparks fizzle out into streaks of smoke and scattered light against the grey, I should pull the trigger..
Mask it with a firework, my old man used to say.
Bang.
But as I stand here shaking in my boots, shotgun fallen to the ground with a corpse in front of me splattered against the grass, I realize that the advice isn't fully sound.
Bang.
The other thing they always told me was that whatever my imagination conjures up is worse than the actual thing, that once I see what it looks like for myself my nerves will settle.
This was a blatant lie, and they knew it.
Bang.
The body is shrouded in darkness, but every subsequent bang of a firework is a warm, colorful but ghastly spotlight illuminating the viscera and sinew that I have created, the box I've opened that I cannot close..
Bang.
And what a spectacle it is. Every subsequent bang is a celebratory ruckus, showing me “Look! You did it! Good job!” with an ironic sense of glee, cheering far off in the distance as I stand here alone.
Bang.
I pick up my shovel.
Bang.