Perfection
Daniel surveyed his beautiful new home. The interior designer had done a terrific job, and the restoration of the 1920âs Tudor exterior went without issue - at least that he was aware of. It was exquisite, as if transported through time.
Through the front door, the foyerâs ten foot ceilings and parquet floor branched off in three directions. To the left, the dining roomâs floor sunk a step lower, at its center stood a twelve person table, set for one. To the right was a sitting room, also sunk a step lower. It was furnished by a velvet couch and two chairs, a fireplace on the far end from the door was clean, having never held wood nor flame since Daniel moved in. Finally a spiral staircase led up to the second floor, where the master bedroom and study were.
Daniel ran his finger tips along the smooth lacquered handrail as he curved his way up the oaken staircase. Entering the study, he walked toward the minibar. He stopped momentarily when he reached it. Daniel looked at his reflection in the gilded mirror hanging on the wall behind the bar, his hair was coifed just so to look casual, but each chunky strand was placed with purpose. He adjusted the image he saw of himself before he swung open the minibarâs hand carved cupboard doors. He pulled out a bottle of thirty year aged Glenfiddich and a small glass tumbler. The nearby freezer held spherical ice cubes which he scooped into the tumbler before pouring out two fingers of celebratory scotch.
The ice clinked against the glass tumbler as he lowered himself into the mid-century Italian-leather-upholstered arm chair near his desk. He took a sip, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. Dates, nuts, vanilla and oak slid out of the glass and onto his tongue where they mixed with the smell of the soft, supple leather his head was rested on. As the taste mellowed into soft, honeyed sweetness he opened his eyes and set the glass down on the desk.
Daniel reached into his pants pocket and fished out his key ring then thumbed through them until he found a small brass key with a capital âDâ embossed in flourished script on the flat of it. He inserted the key in the hole above the bottom right-hand drawer and twist it until he heard a soft click. Inside the drawer was a six and a half inch Smith & Wesson Model 29 with nickel finish, nestled into a black velvet moulded insert alongside a single bullet.
Daniel caressed the revolver absently for a moment, he ran his fingers along the ridges of the logo and trade seals stamped into the cold steel before he picked it up. He hefted its three pound weight, balanced to sit firmly in hand, then flicked his wrist. The motion swung the cylinderâs six empty chambers out. He took the single bullet from itâs place in the insert with his other hand in two fingers and placed it into the topmost chamber of the cylinder. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he slapped the cylinder to start it spinning, so quickly he couldnât see where the bullet was, then slapped it again to close the cylinder back into the barrel. without hesitating he placed the end of the barrel on top of his now-dry tongue, closed his cracked lips over it, and pulled the trigger.
A âclickâ sounded as the hammer plunged, but no bullet exploded out of the barrel. Danielâs stomach fell. He removed the barrel from his mouth and flicked his wrist once more - the bullet was one chamber off from blowing his head open. He emptied the chamber with a shaking hand, placed the bullet back in its proscribed place, re-set the cylinder and placed the revolver back in its cradle. Daniel jumped as another click sounded, this time from his whisky glass as the ice sphere nestled in it cracked in two. He sighed, picked up the glass, gulped the rest of his whisky in one go, and threw the glass at the mirror hanging above the minibar.
