In the last few seconds all the clocks ticked in unison,
His Vision cleared but saw nothing, darkness.
He stared into the blackness that was becoming his life.
But he realised that the blackness was just a centre
Now around it he could see the cold blue, grey of a steel tube
He noticed that the tube was a barrel
A barrel with dent and scratch marks down its length
But then he saw a movement of a finger of a gloved hand
Tucked behind a trigger guard marked with a fleck of white paint,
He saw the cylinder begin to revolve the Chambers changing places
Filled with their load of dull grey slugs of destruction
His nostrils were filled with the smell of gun-oil
He closed his eyes and He tried to shut down his brain
He felt the barrel press against his head for a moment
There was a screaming in his head, a voiceless cry of agony
But then he realised that his life was not flashing before his eyes
Why had he not seen, could not see His life at His death
Was this some way that Fate was telling him
That this was not, his Time, not his time to die.
The scream inside his head subsided.
The smell had gone, he opened his eyes.
The gun, the gloved hand, his assassin was gone.
Leaving him wondering whether he had imagined it
He was in his own room, in his own bed
It must have been a dream, a nightmare
The full horror of it hit him, his stomach contracted
He ran to the bathroom to throw up, but the first thing he saw
was the Mirror and the oily black circle on his forehead
