The impact throws him upwards and backwards, falling through the air for what seems like one long, endless moment. It’s as though gravity has been suspended for his benefit. When he finally hits the ground, the hard surface is wet and slippery.

Above him, the sky is framed by the rotting timbers of a broken roof. The thought drifts through his mind: That’s what my ribs must look like now. He knows the bullet that burst into his chest must have destroyed several  of his internal organs.

A series of words drifts through his mind, but he can make nothing of them. A figure looms over him. He hears a distant roar. The second bullet end his life.

Damian Mark Whittle