Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

“Enough, ladies.”
My voice is low, the strain from their bickering and the barely audible
ticking stretching my nerves until they’re almost ready to snap. Curling my
fingers over the edge of the wooden bench, I can feel the old material splinter
beneath my grip, anger a red-hot tidal wave crashing along my insides.
“I appreciate your concern, because I know it comes from a good place,”
I say, focusing on breathing evenly. “But do not ever speak of my wife and
her former fiancé, unless it’s to say what a good pair we make in comparison.
I don’t want his name associated with hers ever again.”
Ariana’s mouth falls open, her tongue darting across her lips, and I can
see she wants to spite me. There’s a fire in her eyes, defiance threaded
through her slender form, and I can tell it won’t take much to ignite it.
Maybe she’s more like her sister than I realized.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, drawing my attention; I take it out and
scan the screen, exhaling slowly when I read the name that pops up. Pushing
to my feet, I nod at the sisters, aware that I’m leaving my threat open-ended if
I leave without another word.
That’s not a hit my reputation can take right now.
So, instead of trying to convince them of the point more, I take the Rolex,
drop it to the floor, and let my irritation spike from the ticking; like any other
trigger, the sound builds until it’s like a waterfall rushing between my ears,
drowning out every other noise around me.
Episodes like this are suffocating, all-consuming in the rage they
provoke. It vibrates along my spine, knotting in my chest until it peaks,
exploding like a volcanic eruption. Usually, I avoid the violent outbursts my
thoughts conjure, but now, I draw the gun from my waist and aim it right at
the watch face.
A bullet pops free from the chamber, embedding bits of glass and
shrapnel and leather into the floor where it ripples from the impact.
Somehow, like a phantom limb, the ticking remains.
Chest heaving, electricity zinging through my veins, I stare at the hole
and replay the gunshot over and over in my head, my shoulders tense and
heavy.
I don’t—can’t—move until the ticking stops.
Finally, the silence floating in the air around us permeates my hazed
brain, and I feel like I can breathe again. I see the girls wince from the corner
of my eye, and clear my throat, returning the pistol to its spot on my hip.