Dylan's face was pressed into the cold pavement, the rough stone biting into his cheek. Was this it then? Was this how it was all going to end? Giving up after one shot to the stomach?.. The hand not clutching the wound slapped down next to his face, one last attempt to push himself up. It was a futile effort. The Sergeant wasn't going anywhere. He seemed to not go anywhere a lot, lately. Not like he was going anywhere in his job. It seemed fitting that he died in the part of town he didn't want to leave.
Something was off with this scene though. Wasn't his life supposed to flash before his eyes? At least, that's what the media said. Maybe he was having one of those "near death revelations". Or, maybe, his childhood didn't count as his life, but only as a sort of precursor. In his opinion, his life only started a few months ago. When he reconnected with his best friend.. When he fell in love.. When his life got back on track.. When he found out he would be a father.. Wasn't that what life was? Dylan wouldn't deny it. He had lived. He'd loved, he'd lost. What he had was perfect. The only thing he wanted was a bit more time.. But, then again, didn't everyone? Anyway, who was he to argue with faith.
The tight grip he had around his stomach loosened almost entirely, allowing blood to flow freely from the wound. There was no strength left to fight death off. A feeling of numbness and relief began to spread through his body, the pain fading away. His breath became shallow, allowing his eyes to slid shut for the final time. Smiling, he welcomed the long awaited sleep. And, like an ancient pocket watch forgotten to be wound, his heart ticked slowly to a halt.
It was only five minutes later that someone would stumble upon his cold body.
They would mention him later on the news that night. A smiling man, more concerned with his toupee than the actual story, talked about how a Policeman had been found dead earlier that morning. Never once did they mention his name, it could be any officer in Cardiff. They all knew who it was though. The man continued on, saying what a shame it had been to lose such a young life. Then, as if it was scripted, his co-anchor chimed in, "Speaking of shame, it's a shame how poorly the Dragons did in their match last night." The two shared a laugh, and moved on to more pressing stories of scandals and gossip around the bay area.
Because, even though Dylan passed away, the world would keep spinning. Minutes would pass into hours, which would change into days, that turned into weeks, then months. Finally, years began to move by. There wasn't some large hole in society, but only a slight feeling of emptiness to those who knew him. Something they knew was missing, but couldn't put their finger on. In time, the world would forget about him. Those who knew him would move on. Those who didn't, did not care.
Except for a young eighteen-year-old boy, with his thick black hair and his bright blue eyes. He was curled up on top of his bed, a five pound note and a small paper was clutched tightly to his chest. It had arrived in the post that morning in an aged-yellow envelope. The last item of an old will, instructed to not be opened until today. It wasn't the fiver that made it special, but the parchment it came along with. It simply read:
"Hey, kid. Have your first drink on me.
