Trudging through as long as he could, he finally felt his body give out from inside first. He hit his knees, feeling the the rotting wood of the old tracks give under the impact. Inhaling deeply, he let his next breath out slowly and leaned back on his heels some.
He was holding the .45 in his right hand still; clutching it tightly. As his gaze fell down on it, he took in the cold steel and rigid frame… Moments ago, shot off, targeting his mark.
Closing his eyes, he envisioned it all again…. How his arm rose as he turned on his heel… Locking his elbow for impact as he lined the sight up; subject centered.
With his eyes still closed, reliving… His eyes quickly flashed with anger, and he squeezed the trigger. In his mind, he watched the bullet shoot out and almost stall in the air. On the tracks, he felt the cold steel rub slowly across his lips. Then…. He kissed the forty-five just as the memory tinked the glass of his own reflection, shattering it slowly into the air, for good.