He was sitting in the chair, sipping coffee when the gunfire started. It sounded nice and loud, ricocheting of the walls in the way a small shotgun would of the stone walls of his premise. Snipers. There were there and infiltrating the perimeters of his home, assassination on him.No doubt he had made enemies during the war. He grabbed his shotgun, which he kept just underneath his chair, and crept to the windows, where peered an eye out between velvety curtains, assessing the distance. He couldn’t die today, not yet. He survived all 5 years, 3 on the front lines, this wasn’t going to be the day he met his miserable end.
The lawn stared back blank and empty at him, the colour drained from his face. Had they gotten inside? No, they couldn’t have - unless. He turned around, palms turning to sweat and a feeling of adrenaline running through him as he spied the tabletops near the back door of his house, trying to look for a hidden form or shadow. They were there, he could feel it. There were three enemy intruders at his house. They were there every day. They wanted him dead.
Just then the bangs grew louder, like a million bullets ricocheting of walls, he almost felt their vibrations and pressure, his limbs jerking lose as if the ground beneath him was shaking it’s fearsome dance when open fire occurred. The shotgun jerked loosely in his hands. Creamy yellow walls, lace curtains, empty space between the backdoor and the laundry room which he hadn’t checked yet. There were people there, the sounds were evidence, and they were hiding, waiting for him to go to sleep or lose his guard, and then they could come out, with a sickening smile and grin. ‘Oh I see. Let down your guard now have you…’
He raised his gun when suddenly-
The voice was loud and irritating and grating to his ears, his heart spiked and he did a momentarily leap,the brown shotgun in his hands leaping out like a fish out of water and falling with a water pathetic thud on the carpet - his one and only weapon. The voice outside was matched by a mop of curly blonde hair, wide blue eyes, and the plump form of a … local busybody down the street who came to check up on everyday, Mrs…Hunter or something? He frowned at her unwelcome intrusion at his backdoor. Before going to fully open it, having seen her outside the glass.
And perhaps the moment of silence outside was most telling of all, her big eyes staring at him, making remarkedly undistinguished contact before she said, “Mr Livingstone. Are you…” she licked her lips, a bead of apprehension evident on her brow, “Okay?”
“Y-yeah…” I said. Though sometimes there was a lingering question of doubt there that I knew now how to answer.
Prompt: Going for a swim with a loved one