The frightened woman ran across the street, gasping for air, trying to elude the evil tyrant Ivanova. She came to the beginning of a sparse wood, not hesitating to stop and find a way through the trees. Mr. Ivanova was hot on her trail, Swiss and Wesson magnum trailing behind him, a trail of blood being left behind from the wound to his left abdomen. The women barreled through the woods, snagging her clothes on the low hanging branches, fighting her way to safety. Heart rate going through the roof and perspiration wetting her forehead, she kept on going, not noticing the fabric of her linens getting tears from the various thorns protruding from bushes. But just as she saw an opening, the bright light of the sky through some bare branches, she stumbled over an earth root, landing face first into the fresh bed of snow. Trying to get up, she felt a stabbing pain in her right leg; something had obviously bent unnaturally. She muffled her scream, clenching her teeth, trying to crawl forward, now leaving her own trail of blood on the white. She began to sob, lightly then uncontrollably, knowing that she was done for. Mr. Ivanova was very close – she could here his footsteps getting louder and louder. Frantically reaching around for her backpack, she pulled out a device, a camera, and swung it around to her side. Trying with one last effort to stand up, she managed to find support from a nearby tree, a terrible, burning pain in her leg.
Ivanova had entered the forest, stumbling through the trees, clutching his side, already having lost a lot of blood.
“Give up…”, he gasped, raising his magnum at a spot in the trees, shaking, barely able to stay upright.
The woman steadied her camera, getting the scene into focus, and, with one last look at Ivanova’s profile in the distance, snapped the picture. Everything seemed to stop for a few seconds, the little clearing in the wood becoming a blur in the woman’s eyes. A sharp, piercing sound reached her ears, but she barely heard it over the sound of her heart, pumping harder than ever to keep her alive, the blood from her wounded leg soaking the inside of her right pant.
A bullet came whizzing through the brush, and hit her straight in the back. She fell to the ground in with a soft thud, a red pool covering the ground in seconds. The camera tumbled from her hand and landed about a foot from her, the last picture she ever took contained within it.
Her assailant dropped to the ground as well, his gun tumbling out of his callused hand.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: A Moment in Time
What was the last picture you took? Write a post about it and what it means to you.