One, Two (story)

There wasn't much to describe that night. It felt like a blur as if it were a memory or a state of drunkenness. It was particularly silent, eerily hushed. A few hours into the night, one could see the lights go off, all around, one by one. A usual day of inactivity had passed, yet the whole place seemed exhausted. A shot. That could be heard distinctly. A moment of nervous panic. The sound of feet rushing, on the street, wasn't inaudible. A horrific sight. A woman shot in the head right in the middle of the empty street. Groups of overly concerned people rushed over. A gasp, as everyone heard her take her last breath. She was gone. That was it, shot right into whatever came after life. Everyone was whispering rapidly, as if in an urgency, about what had to be done. A few footsteps were enough to turn everyone's eyes towards the person with a gun, walking away, clearly in a failed attempt of escaping unnoticed. Not one noticeable movement, everyone stood there gaping at me, their lower jaws hanging. Their eyes shifted to the object in my hand. Astonishing, yes. Indeed, impossible to get into my mind, understand what's going on. A state of impenetrable obscurity. That's exactly what I'm getting at. It happened at nine, or ten, and then, we begin again.

(This passage is the fictional story that the poem 'One, Two' is based one, conveying that this story shows the view point of the lunatic mentioned in the poem. Both, the poem and this short story, are original and fictional)