Clouds drift over the moon.
Ellen feels the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed to the back of her head.
Her heart stops and the chill spreads. Ice runs through her veins.
Her eyes widen, moisten. Fear climbs from her tight chest to her throat; it forces a choked sob from her dry mouth.
A breath like silk on her neck elicits tiny tremors. She can smell vodka and sour sweat.
“You are nothing, to the universe.” Male, low, soft.
The trigger clicks.
The moon re-emerges.
And she is alone, her heart beating wildly, warm piss soaking her jeans.
(Originally written for Lily Child's Friday Prediction)