The barrel of a gun was between his teeth. It was a large, dimly glinting black thing, heavy, deadly and cold. Apollo pressed the tip of his tongue against the end of the barrel, feeling the large round smooth bored hole that swift death would be delivered through. Apollo blinked cold sweat out of his eyes, long lashes blurring his already closed vision.

Death was staring him in the face, and it had dark black eyes and smile as seductive as a panther.

Apollo, aged six, standing on the banks of the little stream that ran through the field at the back of their house. The corn stems were gold, darker than his sun bleached hair, and waved in the breeze at waist level. Tanned bare limbs and a pair of dusty blue shorts. He dabbled his toes the clear running blue water and smiled to himself.

"Apollo!"

The little boy turns and half blinded by the low sun, raises a hand to shade sky blue eyes to see a slim girlish figure in a light cotton sundress with long wavy hair running toward him over the field.

That same girl, maybe three or four years older, in hipster jeans and a red t-shirt emblazoned with some American slogan. She stands, looking cooler than ice cream on the street corner by the lamp post with the other popular kids, the centre of attention with her long her and her green glitter painted fingernails. Apollo walks by, he's grown over the years, his hair scruffy, in baggy shorts and a ragged t-shirt, skateboard under one arm. The other kids, older than him, sneer down their well shaped noses. Big blue eyes creep up to the girl, for maybe a flash of friendship, of recognition. But she has no time for her old friend now and turns away.

The sound of the hammer being drawn back. Click, click, click.

The face above Apollo moves out of his vision, the gun barrel slips from between his cracked dry lips, banging his teeth as the figure moves away across the empty concrete floor. A parking lot, dimly lit, the halogen tube above Apollo's head was on a constant flicker, a tiny tinging sound filling the empty space between his ears. He could no longer think. Death was coming.

Apollo with his shoulder length blond hair neat and tied back, in a tuxedo with a single white rose in his tanned hand walks up a sweeping gravel drive his polished shoes crunching every step. He's older now, seventeen and roguishly handsome as he knocks on the glass panelled door. It is opened by a slim boy with jet black hair who seems to favour black clothes, metal studs and eyeliner.

"Hey Apollo," He turns round to yell up the stairs, "Elaine!"

He vanishes and the young Apollo glances up inside the house to see the girl with the long dark hair standing at the top of the stairs. Her narrow body is sheathed in layers of purple and blue silk, her hair piled upon her head, falling ringlets framing her smiling face and sparkling eyes. She descends, taking the proffered rose.

"You look gorgeous." He tells her, and she smiles a charming smile.

Aged sixteen in a new black suit that is just too large, so he can use it later on in life, standing in a pew beside his father at the end of the row. A large pine coffin is being carried past, above his head. Head on one side, with his hair allowably messy, he watches the coffin enclosing the body of his grandmother go past. He wonders why he feels so very hollow inside. The feeling passes as he gives his father a shoulder onto which to lay his grief.

Standing in front of a big double-door fridge freezer, wearing boxers and air, hair over his eyes, eyes half closed, lashes dark against his molten gold skin. He seems to contemplate the contents of the fridge, the light that floods from it is all the illumination there is, showing up the slumped figures of at least three others in the room beyond. Duvets and cushions are scattered across the floor, intermingled with empty bottle and beer cans, crisp packets and bits of forgotten chocolate. Apollo takes a six-pack from the fridge and shuts the door, and the gloom is complete.