The Bar

Everything is frozen in motion. Harlan fires at his foes. Two red dots have sprung forth on Luke’s chest. Thomas’ eyes are squinted, head turned, just as splinters spray his face.

But for me it is so still.

The smell of spilled beer and whiskey and of gunpowder and blood fill the room. I can count the flecks of splintered wood mid-air, see the droplets of liquid hanging from each patron’s boot.

Silas. He looks down from a loft, hands on the railing, eyes fixed on Harlan. A grotesque smile lines his dark face, though I wonder if he’s grinning at the chaos or at the absurdity of my presence here.

I step closer, though closer is meaningless. Nothing moves, nothing breathes, nothing screams. Harlan’s arm is extended, gun roaring in a silence only I can hear. Thomas’ face is a perfect half-turn, every flinch captured, every tension held.

I notice the bartender, frozen mid-dive, a bottle in his hand like a small, sad sculpture of intent. The mop-headed boy teeters, broom raised. A single droplet from the spittoon hovers above the floor like a tiny, suspended sun.

I want to call out, to warn someone, to meddle. But I am unsure if that is me intruding on the narrative or the narrative intruding on me. I smell the copper tang of blood and the sour-sweet of beer, and I feel a tug in my chest: curiosity or horror? Perhaps both.

I look back at Silas. His eyes are wide with the knowledge of consequence, and I can almost hear his thoughts: This is the world we made. Or were made to inherit.

A shiver passes down my spine. It is a strange privilege, to walk through someone else’s story, to see it all frozen, and yet I wonder if this is mercy or cruelty.

I am here, a ghost, a critic, a witness, maybe a fool. Perhaps I will write of this, perhaps I will not. Perhaps the story resents my intrusion. Perhaps I resent it.

I take a step forward. Or do I? Time is a trickster, and in this room, it is a liar.