High Noon

by: Isa Perez-Flores

 

III.

     “Don’t do this,” he begs, his golden hair blending into the sun, giving him a halo of fire.

His clothes are dirty and torn, save for the talisman around his neck that glitters tauntingly in the

light.

 

     You raise your gun, forcing the tremor in your hand to still.

     “Please—”

 

     A gunshot echoes through the silent canyon, folding in on itself until it disappears entirely.

He drops to the ground in a lifeless heap, blood already beginning to pool.

 

      “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, watching as the talisman begins to glow, bright enough

to rival the sun as it reaches its peak.

 

     You close your eyes and open them to a dining room in a small house, and the sound of a

tentative knock at the door.

 

                                                                                   —-

V.

     The stranger arrives as the sun is disappearing over the tall cliffs that surround your little

house. You can’t remember the last time you received visitors, especially in this quiet little corner

of paradise you’ve claimed as your own. You lean against the door, cross your arms to make

yourself look as menacing as possible, and raise a brow.

 

     “Can I help you?” you ask. You pitch your voice lower, scrape the vowels over gravel, and

roll the consonants over your tongue. Someone told you once that it sounds intimidating, and now

you pull it out whenever you need people to leave you alone.

 

     The stranger smiles, undeterred, teeth blindingly white in a way that makes you squint. His

eyes are gray and tired, framed by blonde curls and dust-streaked cheeks.

 

     “Well, sir, I’ve been travelin’ for a long while, and you’re the first house I’ve come across,”

the stranger says. “Could I trouble you for directions to the nearest town?”

 

     You tilt your head in consideration, taking in the threadbare messenger bag, boots caked

in dust, and torn jacket. The stranger looks like he’ll collapse any moment, swaying slightly on his

feet as he looks at you with hopeful eyes. But, ultimately, it’s the smile that spells your downfall.

 

     That damn smile.

     “Come on in,” you say, opening the door further and stepping to the side. “I’ll make you a

plate. You look like you could use a warm meal.”

 

     The stranger blinks. “Are you sure?” he asks, taking a hesitant step past the threshold.

     You nod. “I made too much for myself.”

 

     In actuality, you made just enough for dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow, but he

doesn’t need to know that.

 

     “Oh,” the stranger says, stepping fully inside. “Alright.” He politely shakes the dust off his

boots and waits, gray eyes piercing through your soul. You ignore how at home he looks,

surrounded by worn walls and canyon cliffs.

 

     “Coat rack is over there,” you say, shutting the door behind you. “Feel free to hang your

things up. I’ll get you a plate.”

 

     You move to disappear into the kitchen when his voice stops you.

 

     “Thank you,” he says. There’s something in his tone that makes your breath catch in your

throat.

 

      You turn slightly and flash him a wry smile. “I’ll see you in the dining room.”

 

                                                                                   —- 

     The food is the same food you’ve had for the past few days. Or day. Each time, the stranger

acts like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted, practically foaming at the mouth for more.

 

     Does he wake up with an empty, growling stomach? Is it the hunger that drives him to your

door, to his death, each time? Somehow, you don’t think that your slightly burnt fish and

undercooked vegetables are worth it, but he keeps coming, so you keep setting out the extra plate.

He keeps coming back, and you keep letting him in, despite the voice in your head telling you to

stop.

 

     Normally, dinner is quiet, made up of the sounds of utensils scraping against the ceramic

plates and the heavy knowledge of what the morning brings. However, tonight, you can’t keep

your eyes off him. You greedily drink in the way he holds his fork, how the tendons in his wrist

flex as he brings the utensil to his mouth, and the way the swirling tattoos on his forearms stand

out like streaks of paint on an unmarred canvas. You trace the curve of his mouth and follow the

smile line down to his neck, where the collar of his shirt rests with the first button undone. The

talisman around his neck glints invitingly in the dying light, and you’re reaching forward before

you can think better of it.

 

     “What’s this?” you ask, running a finger over the talisman. If your nail catches along his

skin as you do so, well, that’s your business. His fork scrapes harshly against his plate, almost

breaking the silence, but you soldier on, dragging your fingers up to the hollow of his throat. His

throat bobs with a harsh swallow, and you can’t help but trace the movement with your eyes,

cataloging every ligament and muscle that stretches pale skin taut. The stranger closes his hand

over yours, and you feel the metal bite into your skin.

 

     “Something I picked up from my travels,” he replies. “I like to think of it as my good luck
charm.”

 

     You jerk back into reality, shivering like a bucket of cold water has been poured over your
head.

 

     “Good luck charm?” You ask incredulously, pulling your hand back.

 

     The stranger nods, one hand still hovering over the talisman. You grit your teeth and stand,

unsure of what to do with this complicated knot of feelings festering in your chest. So you do what

you do best—

 

     Leave.

                                                                                   —-

 

     You wake up to the sun streaming through the window, a pounding headache, and an empty

bottle beside you. You don’t have to check to know that your horse is missing and that your guest

is gone. At least that part of the loop never changes.

 

     You sigh, stumble out of bed, and fasten your gun to your belt. One bullet in the barrel,

one bullet that always finds its way home, no matter what you do.

 

                                                                                   —-

 

     The path up the cliffs is dusty and riddled with stray brambles. The sun shines in your eyes,

an unrelenting, spiking pain, and you realize that he has stolen your hat as well. That alone causes

you to hustle up the cliff faster, although you know he never makes it further than the peak.

 

     When you reach the top, you see him standing there, looking out towards the horizon as

the horse grazes nearby.

 

     “I bet you’re feeling real good about that ‘good luck charm,’ huh?” you call. No preamble,

no greeting, just straight to the point. He turns and flashes you a weary smile. The brim of your

hat shades his eyes from view.

 

     “Yeah,” he replies, spreading his arms wide. “It led me to you, didn’t it?”

 

     The gun goes off. As the stranger drops to the ground, you realize you don’t even know his

name.

 

                                                                                   —-

VII.

 

     There’s a knock on the door. Reluctantly, you stand, dusting off invisible specs of dirt and

rolling your shoulders out. You know who’s out there. You see him in your dreams— bloody and

beautiful.

 

     And dead.

 

     He arrives in the glare of the sun setting over the canyon ridges. Hair glowing like molten

gold and eyes of silver starlight. He brings your little world to a halt and lets you tumble head over

heels off the wagon you had grown used to riding in.

 

     “Can I come in, sir?” the stranger asks. His teeth are pearls, encased within rose-red lips.

 

     You should say no. You should slam the door in his face and go back to your quiet,

monotonous life. You should go back to your grilled fish and steamed vegetables, which are now

getting cold on the table. You shift to close the door, but the stranger speaks again

 

     “Please, I’ve been traveling for what feels like years,” he says. Smears of dirt streak his

face like painted marble, and those silver starlight eyes bore into yours.

 

     “What’s your name?” you ask, gruffly. No matter what you do, your voice has always been

gruff. You can’t remember the last time someone had allowed you to be gentle.

 

     “Simon, sir,” the stranger says, after a moment. It’s the first time you’ve asked, the first

time you’ve gone off script, and you like the way his eyes widen in surprise. Simon collects himself

after a moment and continues. “Please, it will only be a night. I just need a roof over my head for

one night.”

 

     Against your will, you open the door, and Simon steps inside. With him comes a breath of

fresh air.

 

                                                                                   —–

     Dinner passes as it always does, and you keep your hands to yourself this time.

     Maybe you’re kidding yourself, but you think Simon looks disappointed that you merely

collect the plates when he’s done and head outside. The bottle is heavy in your hand, and you don’t

bother with the pretense of a glass. By the time you stumble off to bed, vision swimming with each

step, he is already fast asleep on the couch.

     Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace the outline of his face, but you ball your hand

into a fist and walk on, shutting the door behind you with a little more force than necessary.

                                                                                   —-

     The sun streams through the window, your head throbs, and you lie there for a moment,

breathing in the dusty air. It takes extra effort to get up this time around. You stub your toe against

your dresser and bang your head against the edge of the door, but you make it out of the house in

the end, gun clutched in your hand. The handle grows slick with sweat, but you hold on, reluctant

to tuck it away.

     It’s a guard against the feelings rolling around in your gut, a familiar shape against the

palm of your hand.

     You find him sitting at the top of the cliff, legs dangling over the edge as he watches the

sun inch higher in the sky.

     This time, he only twists around to look at you, having to crane his neck to meet your eyes.

Your mouth goes dry, and he says nothing, only stares at you with a gaze that slices you open and

leaves you raw.

     A shot rings through the empty air, and Simon falls to the ground, blood already pooling

beneath him.

     The gun feels extra heavy this time around.

                                                                                   —-

IX.

     You’re getting real sick of the smell of burnt fish. It’s your own fault, but maybe if the loop

reset to when you were cooking, you would have been able to save it, take it off the stove sooner,

or lace it with poison to end your misery.

     Would poison even work? Or would the loop reset again, regardless of who dies?

     You shamefully discover that you are not desperate enough to find out.

     The expected knock at the door jolts you out of your staring contest with the

underwhelming fish, and you stand. The impulse to straighten yourself appears, and you give in,

running your fingers through your hair, straightening the collar of your shirt, and maybe popping

open another button.

     Who’s gonna know?

     When you open the door, you lean against the frame, one eyebrow raised and hip cocked

out just so. Simon’s eyes widen minutely, and you let your lips curl into the faintest smirk.

     “Hungry?” you ask.

     Simon swallows, eyes tracing the way your tongue runs over your teeth. “I could eat,” he

replies hoarsely.

     “Come on in, then.” You step aside, leaving barely enough room for him to enter. His

shoulder brushes your chest, and he comes close enough for you to smell the sweat and dust stuck

to his skin.

                                                                                   —-

     “You know that’s bad for you,” Simon says, plucking the cigarette out from between your

fingers.

     “I could name a lot of things that are,” you reply.

     He smiles that cryptic smile, the one you have never been able to figure out, no matter how

many times you live through this day. Without a word, he lifts the cigarette to his mouth and takes

a drag, long and slow. Against your will, your eyes lock onto his lips, at the curve of his cupid’s

bow, to the hollowing of his cheeks. Simon plants his free hand onto the armrest behind you and

leans forward. One knee comes to rest on the bench, brushes against your thigh, and you can feel

his warmth through the fabric of your jeans.

     “Can I help you?” you ask. Simon merely leans forward, bracketing you between his arms.

His lips meet yours, slightly chapped and warm from the cigarette. You feel Simon exhale against

you, feel the smoke begin to swirl in your lungs as he presses closer, something close to desperation

coloring his movements.

     Your eyes flutter closed, and you flail about for something to hold onto. Your hands find

purchase on the back of the bench and the back of Simon’s collar, pulling him close enough that

his other hand comes up to rest near yours, fingertips brushing against the carved wood.

     Simon pulls away with a gasp, lips shiny and eyes wide. Wisps of smoke, a shade darker

than his eyes, drift up from his mouth, and you exhale on reflex. His expression is lost in the smoky

cloud that billows up between you both, but his hand folds over yours briefly, and his thigh flexes.

Your nerves are liquid fire, and every brush sets them ablaze.

     “Goodnight, cowboy,” he says roughly.

     If you knew any better, you would say he was shaken. Without another word, he drops the

cigarette on the porch, stamps it out, and disappears into the house. You press your fingers to your

lips as the cold night air sweeps in.

                                                                                   —-

     You crest the hill, squinting against the bright sunlight, and see him standing there. His

hands are tucked into his pockets, and the light shines around him, creating a dramatic silhouette.

You’d lose your breath if you weren’t already winded from the climb.

     Simon turns, and you see where your missing cigarette box disappeared to. A cigarette is

clenched between his teeth, and Simon smirks.

     “Hypocrite,” you say.

     Simon shrugs, rolling the cigarette around. “You’re a bad influence,” he replies.

     You stride forward, and Simon doesn’t move, merely meets your eyes unflinchingly and

raises a brow. You grab the back of his neck, firm but without the intent to hurt, and pull him in.

The cigarette smushes awkwardly between you, and you feel the lighted end dig into your cheek,

leaving a searing mark, but you can’t bring yourself to move away.

     Simon pulls back and tosses the cigarette aside before threading a hand into your hair and

pulling you back in. He tastes like the dust of the road and the heat of the sun, of sunlight, a fresh

breeze, and cool water from a spring alighting on parched lips.

     You tug him closer, your hands finding purchase on his hips, as his hands tangle into your

hair and dig into your shoulder. You both stumble as his boot gets knocked into yours, and that’s

when it all goes wrong. You both hit the ground, rolling until you dig your heel into the dirt and

bring yourself to a stop. Simon’s panting against your mouth, fingers scrabbling against your belt

as his hips roll into yours. He manages to get a leg over your hip, settling onto you, hot and heavy,

while you get the top buttons of his shirt undone, fingers skimming over the cool metal of the

talisman—

     BANG!

     The gun feels hot against your hip, pressing painfully into the divot between your stomach

and pelvis. Simon makes a choked noise against your mouth as his hands slacken. Something warm

and wet seeps through your shirt, and you’re afraid to pull away, to see up close what you have

always seen at a distance.

     His head drops to your shoulder, breathing labored and pained.

     “Simon—” you whisper, and he shakes his head, trembling against you. “I’m so sorry—”

     Shaking fingers cover your mouth, and you crane your neck to look at him.

     “It’s okay,” he whispers, barely audible. “I’ll see you later.”

     The sun reaches its peak, the talisman glows bright enough to blind, and you hide your face

in his hair, trying to memorize the way he feels pressed against you as he takes his final breath.

                                                                           —-

XII.

     You wake to a knock at the door. For a long moment, you sit there, staring down at the

worn surface of the table beneath you. You can still feel him pressed against you. The taste of his

lips lingers on your tongue, and the way his breath stuttered as his blood soaked onto your skin

rings in your ears. The knock sounds again, urgent and rushed. You’ve barely risen from your

chair when Simon crashes through the door.

     You blink dumbly at him, at the door frame now splintered, and at the door itself, still

swinging slightly from the momentum. All you can think to say is:

     “My door.”

     “You can kill me over it later,” Simon replies.

     It would be funny if the phantom warmth of his blood didn’t coat your hands.

                                                                                   —-

     The silence at the table is stifling. Simon picks at his food, and you would be offended at

the disinterested way his fork pushes the food around if you weren’t doing the same thing. Simon

sets his fork down with a decisive click and turns to face you, eyes hard.

     “What are we doing?” he asks.

     “Eating dinner,” you reply.

     Simon chuckles ruefully and shakes his head. “No, what are we doing? Here. Now. What’s

the point of you shooting me in the chest over and over if it’s going to put us back right where we

started?”

     “I don’t know.” And you don’t. A part of you wants to know, but the other part— the

louder, more insistent part— doesn’t want to find out.

     “How did these loops even start?” Simon asks, eyes desperate and searching.

     “You stole my horse—” Each word is like sand on your tongue, thick and clumping. “—and I

killed you.”

     They fall with a wet plop, out of your mouth and onto the table separating you and Simon,

misshapen and crumbling.

     “It hurt like hell.”

     “It was a goddamn bullet.”

     Simon rests his elbows on the table, leaning his chin on one hand and letting the other toy

with his talisman. “Why’d you kill me again? When you saw me the next day, why did you let me

inside?”

     You purse your lips and drag your fork through the grease leaking from the overcooked

fish as you turn his questions over in your mind. A complicated knot of emotions sits in your chest,

rotating and spinning in the place where your heart should be.

     “I don’t know,” you reply helplessly. And you don’t. You don’t want to know, you just

want to sit and have a quiet dinner with the beautiful boy you’re destined to kill in the morning.

Simon purses his lips and stands, chair screeching against the wooden floor. You stare up at him,

knuckles turning white from the strain of gripping your utensil so hard. You want to touch him,

feel the heat of his skin against your palms and the thrumming of his pulse against your lips, but

you stay rooted to your seat. His gaze is piercing, guarded, and strips you down to your bones.

     Simon leaves without a word, stepping out through the broken door and heading towards

the canyon pass.

     You stare at your fish for a moment before heaving a sigh and following.

     As you pass the coat rack, you see your gun glinting in the fading light. Your fingers twitch

at your side, and you grab it from the rack, buckling the holster on as you stride out the door,

squinting against the glare.

     You left your hat again. Oh well.

                                                                                   —-

     His back is turned to you— that hasn’t changed. But his head is bowed, and he is cradling

something in his hands. The dirt crunches under your feet, but Simon doesn’t move. You run your

thumb over the handle of your gun, feeling the cool metal slowly warm under repeated passes. It

takes more effort than you would like to admit to pull your hand away and let it drop uselessly by

your side.

     “What if you just didn’t kill me?” Simon asks. He’s still not facing you, still staring out at

the horizon. “What if I killed you instead? Or we just sit and talk? Would it still reset?”

     Your hand falls. “I don’t know,” you reply. You’re starting to sound like a broken record,

and it’s grating on your nerves, but you don’t have any other response.

     “We don’t have to do this every time— hell, maybe that’s the whole point of this

godforsaken thing!”

     “We could change everything, we could sit here and talk all night if you wanted to, and the

loop could still restart,” you say. “What’s the point?”

     “God, Leo.” He turns to face you, and his eyes are rimmed red. “I’m so tired of dying.”

     You can’t breathe. Your breath feels like it got stuck somewhere in the middle of your

throat. It’s the first time he’s ever said your name.

     “I’m tired of watching you die,” you manage. Your voice is croaky and hoarse, and the ball

of emotions in your chest swirls even tighter, pressing down on your lungs until each breath is a

fight.

     “Then don’t.” Simon clambers to his feet, eyes growing wild. “What do you want, Leo?”

     “I…” You clear your throat and try again, hoping your voice comes out stronger. “I want

to watch the sunrise with you. I want to eat something that is not overcooked fish and mushy

vegetables.”

     The smile that splits across Simon’s face is nothing short of blinding.

     “I want to find out where this road takes us,” he says. “Are you with me?”

     You nod. Barely. By god, do you want to get out of this endless hell and get to know the

pretty boy with the cryptic smile and sunlit hair. You want to know him outside of this death and

decay so badly it rattles your teeth and makes your chest ache.

     Simon turns and hurls the talisman over the edge of the cliff. You watch it sail over the

canyon before it blends into the horizon in a flash of light.

     “Now you,” he says. You can tell by the line of his shoulders and the set of arms that he’s

bracing for the blow of a bullet. You pull your gun out. It finds its home easily in the palm of your

hand. Simon doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. You step forward, gripping the gun tightly in your

hand, feeling the metal sear into your skin as you carefully make your way to the edge.

     Slowly, you extend your arm and flick the chamber open, watching as the only bullet falls

out and disappears into the canyon below. The gun follows soon after, and you step back, away

from the edge as fast as you can.

     The sound of the gun hitting the ground echoes throughout the canyon, and you can’t help

but feel an overwhelming sense of relief from having it gone.

     Simon exhales harshly, shoulders relaxing as he turns to face you once more. He extends a

trembling hand, the swirls of ink on his arm standing out starkly against his pale skin. Simon grins,

dimples on full display, and curls his fingers back, mimicking the gun you have repeatedly aimed

at him without fail.

     “Buckle up, cowboy,” he says, and fires.

                                                                                   —-