I strolled out into my yard, taking a slow walk around the chain link fence that separated it from the others, and gradually got to his. I leaned against the fence, as though I hadn't a care in the world and called out.
"Hey there, Micky, you finally gettin' that garden started?" He looked up at my words and dabbed a clean rag to his forehead to clean the sweat from it as he walked over.
"Sure am, May, sure am. I figure I've been talking about it for years now, and in another few year's I won't be able to bend over to tend to it with the way my hip's been getting on."
"Ah, you're only as old as you feel, you know that." I chuckled.
"Easy for a spring chicken like you to say that." He said with an exaggerated wink and I groaned mockingly. He laughed at my response and I picked myself up off the fence.
"Well, I just wanted to say hi, Figure I should be getting back in, I've got some work to do inside." He nodded and said goodbye, and I headed back to the house, my heart pumping into a furious fever pitch.
He could not get any deeper. I thought quickly and trotted into my bedroom, a plain room, just a double bed with gray covers, a dark wood dresser, nightstand and desk with a computer.
I launched into action, pulling on a pair of nice, black leather gloves, I pulled a SIG Saur from my nightstand and began wiping it and its ammo down. I loaded it up and stuck it in the waistband of my pants, having nowhere better to put it. I left out my front door and crossed into Micky's front yard, carefully unlatching his gate and entering. Thankfully he takes good care of his home, and the hinges did not squeak. I crept slowly around the side of his house and he came into view, his back to me.
I went slow, crossing the yard, sweating at the thought that any second another neighbor could come out. None did and I got within in a yard of him. Impossible to miss aim, and right as I reached that point and stopped, he suddenly bent over and snatched what appeared to be a femur from the hole. He gasped and dropped it, falling backwards onto his ass.
"Don't move Micky," He jumped and began turning, getting a glimpse of the pistol. "I said don't fucking move."
He froze in place.
"Look...May, whatever you did-"
"It doesn't matter, because you're very calmly going to walk inside the house and we're going to sit down and have a little chat." He got to his feet, achingly slow, his arms held out from his body.
"Okay, okay," Micky muttered. "Just, cool it."
We made a path to the house, Micky in front and me close behind with the gun just touching the small of his back. Just a reminder. We stepped in, and I reached behind me to close the door and he spun, faster than I could track with my eyes and delivered a haymaker directly to my jaw. There was a snap and I dropped to the ground, screaming, let go of the gun and screamed, only it wasn't right, because it was a gurgling, grinding sound and it made it hurt so much worse
He grabbed my ankles, yanking me deeper into the kitchen and put one knee on my chest, pressing down when I struggled and making me flail my arms even more, trying to hit anything on him.
This isn't right, I thought desperately. This isn't how it was supposed to go.
And now he's calling someone, and blood's leaking down my throat and my jaw feels like it's been knocked out of place, and distantly, very quietly, I hear a voice.
"911, what is your emergency?" Then Micky gave a response but I was already half unconscious and unable to fight back and I'll I can do is give up, and give in and let go.
And I do.