Buckshot

A single drop of sweat seeking the Earth was the only motion for what felt like miles, the smoke seeming to have frozen in a grim polaroid of that time-shattering shot. I couldn't feel my legs. For that matter, I couldn't feel anything. It was the sort of paralyzing chill that you feel when you're late for your own wedding, but I'd just ruined my tux to boot. There was nothing on me, to be sure. He went down a good fifty yards ahead, but I felt dirty. I saw the stain on my hands. They say it gets easier, and I pray they are right, because next time it won't be a buck.