Fresh "content."

With uni over I have some free time to continue my writing. I'm aiming to have one fresh short each week, and maybe more if I am feeling up to it. Hope you enjoy.

Buffalo
By Tim Harvey

The floorboards creaked under Anthony's heavy boots and he paused in the dim light. Did he hear that? No, he didn't. Anthony held his position in the barely lit hallway, sweat soaking through the navy wool balaclava covering his face. It must be in this room, he thought as he lifted one foot and tested the boards. They groaned again, but quieter than before, giving Anthony the confidence to take another step.
He slid up against the wall and tested the door handle to his left. It whined quietly and Anthony's gloved hand muffled most of the mechanical clicking of the old relic. He pushed the door open a fraction and leant over, peering into the darkness. This was the room, Anthony knew it. The window let in enough of the moon's shadowed glow to illuminate the ancient armoire in the corner. It must be in there, it has to be.
Anthony crept into the room and eased the door shut behind him. As he walked over to the armoire he was struck by the sickening feeling that he had been caught. His pace faltered and he stood, almost crouched in the centre of the room. Although he couldn't see who it was, he knew there were eyes on him from across the room.
Surely he would say something. Completely exposed, Anthony considered fleeing. He would have a gun on me. He must.
'What now?' The mumbled words were barely audible, even to Anthony. He waited. No reply.
Slowly turning his head, Anthony saw the glistening eyes watching him from the corner. He turned back to the armoire and continued his stealthy trip across the room. The heavy wooden doors opened easily, and without a sound. The prize was there on the top shelf.
'Did this get you too?' Anthony asked towards the eyes as he took the wooden box down from the shelf. After unlatching the small brass lock Anthony slid the top open and took a moment to observe what lie there.
The gold embellishments of the long-barrelled Colt shone in the moonlight. The glistening varnish of the heavy wooden grip, and the immaculately polished steel of the gun took Anthony's breath away. He lifted it out of its velvet-lined coffin and held it up to his eyes. Running his fingers along the barrel felt like bliss. One-hundred and fifty years old, history in his hands.
The barrel rotated easily, well-oiled and ready for war. Anthony eased the hammer back, watching the chambers revolve with military precision.
'Did this get you too?' He asked the eyes again, raising the heavy pistol towards them. 'How old are you?'
The great white buffalo head eyed him with disdain. Mounted and stuffed, the last of his kind to ever roam the Earth. History, hanging on a wooden board.
'You're all locked away in here,' Anthony said to the pistol in his hand, pulling it close to his face. 'Hidden from view.'
He remembered the first time he saw the gun, at the shooting range. The old man had brought it in to show off to his buddies. They marvelled and asked if he would ever fire it. No, he replied. It's too old. Anthony swore if he ever had such a firm grasp on the past he would use it. He followed the old man to his house and hid outside until late at night. He would have that gun. He would use it.
Now, with the pistol in his hand, Anthony faltered. The drive to use this gun, this pistol that had probably killed, was gone. Who knew how many Southerners this gun had wiped from existence, in the name of the Union? Who knew which officer carried this piece into battle, or if it even saw combat?
'What am I doing?' The words were dry, and the buffalo watched on, asking the same question. What are you doing? Anthony slid the gun back into its navy-velvet home and eased the lid of the case shut. He placed it back on the top shelf and closed the doors of the armoire.
'Did that gun get you too?' He asked the buffalo once more. There was no reply, no answer. Anthony sighed, realising he would never know.
He crept down the hallway and climbed out of the window that he had entered by. There was no answer, there was no explanation. Anthony would have to make his own truth.