Flashy Fridays will be my egotistical push of short-short fiction. Most of it will either be written on the spot or pulled up from somewhere past. With A Whimper was originally titled “Scrambled” and was entered into the first LitReactor Flash Fiction Smackdown last month.
He had thought the end of the world would come with a bang, not a whimper. To be fair, he wasn’t really whimpering. He was wailing and moaning between retching and shitting—and it wasn’t really the end of the world. Just his.
It was a really un-fucking-dignified way to go. It would be a headline. The drugs didn’t kill him. The alcohol didn’t. Not even the years of shady deals in dark alleys had killed him. He had spent over a decade with his hand hovering over the gun on his hip, and the bitch who had convinced him it was all too dangerous had killed him so easily.
He had burst a blood vessel in his eye on the second day. The strain had caused a headache so bad all he could see was white light. Today there was blood in his shit. Or he thought there was. The only light came from a small rectangular window above his head.
His life wasn’t flashing before his eyes. Maybe that only happens when you die fast, rather than rotting from the inside out. He only saw her. Saw her in a red dress on their first date, crying the day she asked him to get out of the business, glowing and draped in white on their wedding day. He saw her with a plate of scrambled eggs the morning his stomach had started bothering him. She was smiling.