Rising Tension

You try to stay low and head towards the bathroom. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Sharma, in his black suit as always. You could smell the oil that his head was lathered with, the odor was revolting. He was a fat man and barely fit into the suit which was clearly meant for a smaller sized individual. There were many other people in the restaurant but your glimpse consisted of a focus singling him out. 

You enter the bathroom and find yourself alone which is a good thing. You recall your brother’s words, ‘Everybody is frightened when they do it for the first time. I know I was scared as shit. But when it’s over, it doesn't even feel like you did much.’

You try to speak those words again and again to yourself in the mirror. ‘It happens to everyone… every… single…one’

Your mind fails to convince you hard enough.

‘What if I fail? What if something goes wrong?’

You keep your briefcase on the floor and think about your family. You need to do this for them. It will mark you as one of them. You will be truly accepted. It might have been really easy for them. But it’s tough for you. You’ve never known why. Maybe, this is not something you were meant to do. What if you were destined for something better? 

NO! No! Not a chance! You need to stop comforting yourself with the nice guy crap.

You need to face the situation. There is no way anyone is going to stop you from doing this. No matter what happens. You get down on one knee and open your briefcase for a second, looking closely at its contents. A Glock 19 revolver stares at you with high expectations of it being used. You take a deep breath and think of holding it to get a feel. 

Suddenly, you hear the door being unlocked. You close the briefcase, keep it down and stand up to act as if you’re washing your face. You keep your eyes fixed on the mirror, at yourself. You slightly move your eye to the right and you can make out that Mr. Sharma has walked in. You try to console yourself, he doesn’t know who you are and he never will. He walks in, not even noticing you and goes into one of the stalls. You release your breath which you had held without noticing for so long. 

You think about removing that gun and unloading it into that stall at that exact moment just so the sheer tension built up in your mind can pass. You check your wrist watch, there are still five minutes left for the hand to be at 9. You cannot wait, five minutes seems like more than an eternity. But, the passing of time is the least of your concerns right now. When Mr. Sharma comes out and sees you still washing your hands, he’ll know something is up. 

You need to do something, and fast.

Could you hide under the sink? No, that’s stupid; there isn’t even place to hide under there. Could you leave the bathroom and sit down at one of the nearby tables? Some waiter might ask you for your order or something. That’s more than you can handle right now. The plan was to stay in the bathroom until 9. Why do people even go to bathrooms? Oh right, you realize and go to another stall. You hope that Mr. Sharma isn’t in the stall for a bigger business and will leave fast. Your mind starts running over the plan once again to pass the time… then; you’ll drop the gun and the briefca- Oh No! The briefcase! You check your stall although you already know; the briefcase is outside. 

Your brain physically hurts; how could you forget it outside? You think about going out and bringing it inside. It won’t even take a second. What if he catches you in the middle of it? You put both your hands on the side of your temple and press it to bring some calm to the chaos. Why would he even care about a briefcase left in the middle of a bathroom? Although, the briefcase is not as much of a deadly threat as to him finding out what’s in it. 

You hear a flush and the click of the stall door opening; you made a good decision not stepping out to get the briefcase. It would have been a better decision to have grabbed the briefcase with you in the first place. 

You close your eyes, you cannot bear it anymore. You still hear everything as you don’t have the guts to block your ears and not know what was happening outside. There is a sickening silence and you can hear each and every one of his movements. His footsteps as he walks toward the sink. His shoes were of the formal type and made a tuck-tuck noise with each step. You hear the sound of the tap opening, water gushing down; his hands acting as obstacles creating disturbances in the flow. 

The tap closes and there’s a pause. A silence that pieces your heart like a dagger. You tell yourself, it is nothing but him looking at himself in the mirror. Still, the muscles in your entire body tense up and you become rigid like a rock. You ball up your fists and force your eyelids to close tighter so that the darkness becomes darker. The sole sound that breaks your pose is the opening and closing of the bathroom door. 

Your eyes open and all your body parts are relaxed. You slowly get up and get out of the stall to see your briefcase as you left it; untouched. You splash some water on your face and look at yourself in the mirror. 

‘Just like a performance, when it’s over, doesn’t even feel like you did much.’ You slightly nod to yourself. You roll your wrist and see that the time has come. You have had enough, you will do your job and you will do it perfectly. 

You take the revolver in your right hand and the briefcase in your left and stride out of the bathroom. You walk right towards Mr. Sharma and stand around five feet away from him.

You aim the gun right at his stupid oiled head and… FIRE!!!