Aposiopesis

Aposiopesis (a-pos-i-o-pee’-sis): Breaking off suddenly in the middle of speaking, usually to portray being overcome with emotion.

My time is. . . is run . . . ing out. The clouds are gathering. My sight is dimming. Shot 42 times in the stomach I should be dead already. I can hear you asking through the fog of my demise: “How do you know it’s 42 times.” I don’t know. It’s hyperbole, a figure of speech. Maybe if I said 100 times it would be clearer that I’m exaggerating for effect. You know, like there’s a million reasons for you to shut up and let me die in peace. But, there wasn’t going to be any peace. A dog started barking in his face and a car alarm went off and a motorcycle roared by.

Maybe his final wish would be fulfilled: win $5,500 on the Take Five scratch-off lotto ticket. His brother Thor was kneeling alongside him. They had been on their way to the marijuana dispensary to get a vape for their dad for Father’s Day. With great effort he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a dollar, and told his brother to go to Cliff’s and get him a Take Five scratch-off lotto ticket, and also, call an ambulance.

He had been shot up by a gang of crackheads who roamed the neighborhood, mugging people, pushing people down and yelling insults—then they’d go back to their crackden and gloat over the evil they’d done. Somehow, they had gotten their hands on a bunch of handguns. They were shooting them in the air and dancing around. One of them tripped and accidentally shot him. If only he had been running his usual 3-card Monte scam, he would not have been shot. The crackheads had apologized promised him an ounce of crack if he kept his mouth shut.

Keeping his dying wish, his brother came running up the sidewalk waving the lotto ticket. He handed it to his brother who vigorously scratched it. It won a free Take Five ticket. He tore it up, dug out another dollar and told his brother to get another one.

Just then, the ambulance pulled up. The attendant said “What’s this red stuff?” and laughed. He said, “It’s my blood you f-ing shit for brains!” The attendant said “if you keep talking to me like that, we’ll leave you here.” He laughed again. They loaded him in the ambulance and took off for the hospital siren blaring. He underwent 6 hours of surgery, removing the bullets from his stomach. He died asking for his lotto ticket.

Meanwhile, his brother came back and nobody was there, so he scratched off the lotto ticket. He had hit the $5,500 jackpot. He kept it for himself.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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