Eulogy for an Extra

Pip.

Joe wasn’t surprised. Somehow it was even fitting. Not that he enjoyed it, but there was a sense of conclusion to it all. Like the end of a good television episode. But as that small bolt of lead tore through Joe’s content mind, he couldn’t help wondering about something that caught him off guard--

“I wonder what the bloodstain will look like on the wall behind me.”

Perhaps this was nothing so surprising. Joe was the type who might otherwise be concerned about the mess, or damage, or embarrassing exposure of his inner thoughts. But that wasn’t quite it. No, Joe was thinking of the aesthetic of it. He imagined it could be compared to something he saw in a museum as a boy. The smattering of blood like a Jackson Pollock, the bits of brain like a Georges Seurat. Those paintings never meant much to him, but he had a fondness for them in a simple way and understood they at least meant great things to other people. People with names. What would his artwork mean to them?

Had Joe more time, he might have ventured ideas of his own, dredging forgotten hopes, or tabled aspirations, to imbue his scattered mind. Not that he was an ungrateful person, no if Joe was anything he was content and proud of it. He couldn’t have thought of a better ending himself. All the same, he did find comfort in his waning moments that something would be left behind, persist after him. Something that might be something a little more. People would see it and know.

Joe’s eyes went dark, and he smiled. The leaden slug finished its arc through Joe’s life. It was small but rent a great deal of his mind. So small that he might not have noticed if he hadn’t been caught between thoughts. Too small, in fact: it met the inner wall of Joe’s skull and splayed brilliantly across its surface, an undulating torrent of now fluid metal racing out in impressionistic fury. It was a bullet among bullets, a flashing meteor in the night sky. But it left no exit wound, and Joe slipped quietly to the floor.