lynching

He looked up at the sky, face parallel to the ground. Eyes blinding under the merciless glare of the summer sun. He took in a deep breath, and slowly let it out. He felt, could visualize the oxygen going through his nostrils to his lungs, cooling every pipe it travelled through, and then from his lungs back out. He looked back at his phone. The messages blared out at him. He didn’t know why they irked him. He was anti-those messages. But they upset him more than they should have. His fingers trembled over the phone. Ready to type out a response. A response that wasn’t his to give. But someone had to give it. And out of fear, normal, self preservative fear, regular people wouldn’t give that response. His eyes drooped. His head was heavy. A fly buzzed around his right ear. He swatted it with a snap from his thumb and forefinger. He looked up at the sun again and winced. Willing his eyes to stay open, to stare at the sun that seemed to get red and turn to yellow, and then blinding white. He closed his eyes, looked back at his phone. On the other side of his eyelids, everything looked a warm red. And when he opened them, he saw specks of light in his vision like particles of dust suspended right in front of his eyes. Everything was white, shining stars circling in front of his eyes. They adjusted. And then he could see. His eyes hurt. They also felt heavy. He really needed some sleep. Soon. Soon. He looked back down at his phone, and clenched it tighter. The messages were making him see red. His eyes were shutting. He looked at his phone, typed out a few things. His fingers were on autopilot. He was falling asleep. He would close his eyes, and then open them again. He opened them, smiled, and clicked on send. A whoosh and his message delivered. He closed his eyes. He pushed the seat all the way down, before falling back on it, he put the car on park. Pulled the brake up. Fell back, and fell into deep dreams. He was falling. Clouds cushioning his fall. He fell through them. His arms flailing. He could see the shapes his falling body left behind in the clouds. Perfectly made. He fell down. Jerked back awake. Tapping at his window. Insistent. The man looking in. His face was upside down. No, his beard was thick. His head had a turban. He was looking in. Unashamedly. Unabashedly. Tapping. Eyes conveying nothing. The mark of the religious on his face. He sighed and opened the window, yawning as he did. A knife in his face. He made to put it back up. A tap on the other window. Two others standing there, leering, a gun pointed at his head. He sighed. Well, he had realized this could happen. And now it was. He smiled, opened the door, and walked out to meet his fate.