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Lucky Lucy

by Ciarán Coleman about a year ago in fiction
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A briefcase filled with $20,000. What more can a girl want?

He sat there, feverish and surrounded in his own blood, back pressed awkwardly against the hotel wall. Panic sounded out in the form of his frantic, laboured breaths that echoed throughout the small hallway. He clawed at his neck as bile rose in his throat. He vomited again. The carpet stained crimson.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her, shock lacing her young eyes. Linda. No... Lucy. The managers daughter. The desolate hallway lamp casted a sickly yellow light over her pale skin. Her hands, shaking at an almost comedic rate, found solace in stifling a gasp as she took a step forward.

'Help me', he whispered, struggling to get the words out. Another wave of nausea hit him and he winced, groaning through gritted teeth. His hand spasmed out towards her, knocking over his briefcase. His other hand lay against the remnants of the plate he'd broken when he'd fallen.

Lucy seemed to wake from her shock then, violently and awkwardly falling to her knees, putting her cold fingers against his neck. His pulse was faint and incredibly slow beneath his sweat drenched collar. Still beating though. He was clinging to life with all he had.

The man fell against her, coughing small droplets of red onto her hands and his white shirt simultaneously. Lucy jerked back, the smell, metallic and awful, reaching her nose. She struggled not to get sick.

He felt her push him back against the wall, softly but firmly. A gentle breeze blew in from the window he'd opened what felt like an eternity ago but couldn't be more than ten minutes. The girl, god he'd already forgotten her name, was looking at him so piercingly. Inquisitively. She couldn't be more than 16.

'It's alright, Mr...', the girl said, pushing his jacket back. She reached into his inside pocket, pulling out a small, black notebook, worn and frayed slightly at the seams; his food journal. His name was on the front page and she found it instantly, '...Gable. I've called the ambulance, you're gonna be fine. You're gonna be ok'.

He wasn't. And he knew it. He'd stopped vomiting his guts all over the floor but the damage was done. Michael Gable was a dead man. He keeled over, his face pressed against the carpet. Something wasn't right, besides the fact that he was going to die in this stinking hotel hallway, besides the pain eating away at his stomach. Breathing painfully slow now, he just about heard a soft clicking; the opening of his briefcase. He could just about turn his head to see Lucy gasp.

From top to bottom, the briefcase was filled with $100 notes, every square inch housing brand new bills. Making a rough estimate, she figured there had to be at least $20,000 in there. Lucy picked up Gables food journal from where she'd left it on the floor, safely away from the blood. The pages smelt of old books and blood.

'Huh', Lucy murmured, leafing through his notebook to where he had documented his final meal. She laughed suddenly, 'I didn't take you for a lamb stew kinda guy.'

She picked up his briefcase. It had more money in it than she'd seen in her whole life, more money than she knew what to do with. The ones she poisoned were never rich.

Lucy turned to face him. Michael Gable closed his eyes for the last time as the girl's voice sounded out.

'I guess it's my lucky day.'

* * *

Thanks for reading! Click the heart if you enjoyed and tips are hugely appreciated. Click the little picture of me for more of my content! - Ciarán.

fiction

About the author

Ciarán Coleman

'There's no time for hatred, only questions

What is love, where is happiness

What is life, where is peace?

When will I find the strength to bring me release?'

- Jeff Buckley

Interested in me writing for you?

Gmail; [email protected]

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