The Longest Second

Natasha Wright

A man is forced to his knees.

He can see nothing,

but he feels

a gun against his temple,

hard and cold through the rough fabric bag

enveloping his head.

He is a father, a husband, a friend,

a soldier,

which is all that matters now,

as he’s bound at the wrists,

blistered by rope,

a film of sweat, dirt and blood coating him…

but all he can think of are his daughter’s blonde curls,

and her spaghetti sauce smile,

Christmas morning,

and his wife’s lilac perfume…

but the bag around his head smells like vomit.

The gun is repositioned against his head.

He is breathing harder,

blood pounding in his ears:

a crescendo that swallows the foreign voices

until all that is left is a quickened pulse,

pressing against the barrel of the gun…