Ten minutes

As promised, here's my ten minute timed writing from the first session of the writing workshop I'm doing. Remember the rules. It's ten minutes of continuous writing of whatever falls out of your head. You're not allowed to pick up your pen, and if you get stumped, you repeat the prompt.  Our prompt was "I remember." The only thing I asked was that it not be an actual memory.  Here's mine.

I remember the purple of his eyes. Like forget-me-nots. Are forget-me-nots even purple? I don't really know. But when I see him, when I close my eyes, that's what his eyes are for me. Purple, pleading forget-me-nots.

And I haven't. Can't. Usually it's a dream and usually my dream is ultra-sharp image of reality--a tape loop in my head.

It's Sean, looking back at me, over one alley-cat shoulder, eyes saying don't.

Wish I hadn't, I guess I wish there had been some way out of it, but he made his mistakes and I had learned from him.

After I pulled the trigger, my ears rang--the room was too small to contain the sound. And when he fell, he spun, landed face up, and one purple eye left, staring forget-me-nots at me.

I remember thinking how long? Have they left me here on purpose, as I waited. Am I for the cops? Just when I had made peace with that, with a trial, a prison term, or maybe not, maybe becoming a loose thread to cut, they came for my.

Yep. Doesn't make a lick of sense, but there it is.  Part of the deal is that you read it after you write it, so I thought I'd inflict mine on everybody. Look for whatever escapes my head after next week's session.