State of Death

*This story contains gun violence, criminal behavior, coarse language*

These are my seven minutes. I have seven minutes before my brain stops and there is nothing left within me. 

There are several stages or states, if you will, of life. Birth, childhood, school years, adolescence. All of it leads to one though. Death. Some of us reach it earlier than others. 

Some of us reach it because we choose it. We may not even actually realize we chose it. But some of us do. 

I didn’t realize it when I chose it. But here I am. After a series of choices, I found myself prematurely in the state of death. Not figuratively. Literally. 

When I found myself at my unfortunate crossroads, where the choices had to be made, the choices that took me to this path and led me here, I didn’t think I was foolish. I didn’t think I was making the wrong choice, but as I said… Hindsight, if you will. But if I was asked, even knowing what I know now, I would do it again. 

My crossroad that led me here was the moment that I met Sloan. Spunk and fight, and cropped hair and sharp green eyes, and soft lips and a smile that would cause the devil himself to fall at her feet and worship her. She was more than I could have ever imagined. She was fire and ice and she was somehow mine. 

And there was nothing I would deny her if she asked. Taking me further down the path to led me to this state. My unfortunate fate.

But she was life. 

Living with her, laying in the bed next to her at night, tasting her skin and her lips. Waking up tangled in her sheets and her limbs, was the air in my lungs. Feeling her hands on my body and listening to the words she affirmed me with, was the beating of my heart. Life.

She was wild. She was risk. She was reward. I could never say no. I would never say no.

She was the last thing I would see. Tears glittering in those emerald green eyes as she said she was sorry. As she blamed herself. 

But she doesn’t understand. If I could hold her for just one minute, I would do it again. 

The next fork in the road comes now. She said it would be quick and easy. We would get a huge pay out. She had done half a dozen heists similar to this one. And she got away with it every single time. These heists allowed us to spend days languishing in bed, or on elaborate vacations. But it would be easier if the two of us do it together. Living. 

I follow her down the path. It’s all so easy. Too easy. Simple. Tie up your hair. Put your mask on. Wear gloves. Go in, smash the display case. Grab the diamonds. Go. Get in. Get out.

It’s not just once. It’s twice. Three times. Four times. Uncountable times. So many times. So many forks in the road. Choices. Every time, it’s all for her. All for us. For our life.

I’m small. Petite. And I have curves. She would tell me, I had a body that wouldn’t quit. The only identifying feature that anyone had on me was that I was a small female with a loud voice. And that I was fast. And that I was strong. 

Diamonds were the hardest to get. But I was good at getting them. They are the best currency. Untraceable. Valuable. Beautiful. 

My seven minutes are slipping away. But I see her. And I see diamonds. And I see lights. And I see red. But I see her. 

Our funds had gotten low. Low for us, at any rate. We mapped it out. A store that specialized in diamond jewelry. I had gone in to case it out several times. Different wigs. Different makeup. Different accents. I knew which cases had the most valuable pieces. And I knew where the safe was that the loose diamonds were kept and how and when it would be open to move inventory in and out. 

Nothing could go wrong. 

Dressed in all black. My mask in place. My hair tucked under. I kiss her hard and fast as adrenaline rushes hot through my veins. I never knew what I was capable of until she came into my life. I wasn’t even living before her. 

She’s in a blacked out SUV. Her own mask in place. Stolen plates. 

Another crossroad. I see the manager heading to the safe. I run in, heavy metal bat in my hands, I swing and hit him, I swing and smash the case. I grab the stash that was in his hands, and I grab the stash out of the case. 

I’m in and out in less than a minute. 

I didn’t anticipate the hidden alarm this time. Going for the manager gave the other clerk time to hit it. 

As we are taking off, lights and sirens are tailing us. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Sloan is maneuvering around cars and speeding up. Hoping to lose them. 

Now comes the next fork in the road. I could ask her to stop. I could ask her to let me out so I can turn myself in. I could ask her anything. 

I open the glove box and pull out the 9mm she keeps in there. It’s heavy and cold in my hand. 

I look over at her. She had ripped her mask off. Her spiky blonde hair is disheveled. But by god, she’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. 

She looks at me. She double takes but has to focus on the road ahead. “What are you doing?” She asks me. 

It’s another crossroad. Another choice. 

Suddenly, all I can think about is facing a life away from her. 

It’s an all encompassing desperation. I unclip my seatbelt and I roll the window down. 

I turn in my seat, knees pressed against the back of the seat as I pour my upper body out and take aim at the cop car behind ours. 

It’s a moving target. Sloan has to be going at least 90 mph - maybe 100, maybe more - I have no way of knowing - as she’s weaving through traffic. The cop car tailing us in perfect sync with us. As we weave, he weaves. We go right. He goes right. It’s that synchronicity that helps me as I remove the safety. 

I make eye contact with him as I squeeze the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. Sloan had taken me to the range a million times. I’m an excellent shot. I know how to brace for the kick. 

It’s harder at 90 miles an hour. It’s harder when your eyes are blurring with tears. I don’t see if I hit him. I don’t want to see. 

I slide back into my seat in time for a rumble strip to catch us, and we are sliding. Sparks and metal and concrete. I’m slammed against the dashboard and I’m winded. I’m breathless. 

My last crossroad. My final choice. I open the car door as Sloan is getting out of the driver’s side. She grabs my arm and we make a move to run, when the heat enters my back - I feel it before I hear it. Or maybe I heard it first. I don’t remember. I only remember her face. Her perfect face. And I’m on the ground. 

She’s scooping me into her lap. I’m looking at her. And that’s all I ever needed. 

My seven minutes are her face looking at mine. My seven minutes, before the state of death consumes me, is her. Because she taught me to live. She was life.