From the attic window he could see the two blonde children playing gleefully round the fish pool.
He shuffled through the photo album once more and saw again the joyous family they had been.
They’d all taken the platinum blonde from his daughter; their mother; and their lively eyes and dancing charm from his son in law.
His body trembled with the grief, which swept over him in darker and ever more engulfing waves; waves that swallowed him and spewed him up spent and exhausted on some barren strand.
He went slowly across the grass and as the children spotted him he did his Quasimodo impression to their squeals of delight, and as they followed him to the shed he held up his hand in a gentle censure and they turned back to the pool .
They hadn’t missed their parent s yet. It was two weeks now since the drunk had mowed into their car coming home from their visit to him..
The hardest part was going to the mortuary when the doctor told him to be prepared, as he lifted back the blue covering.
He’d restrained the attendant when he went to cover the once beautiful , now mutilated faces .
He drew on some inner reserve; made himself absorb it all. They deserved that much from him at least .the stark ; the sudden rawness of his grief.
He opened the album again and set it on the workbench. He opened the window and the angelic shrieks wafted in but could not divert him from his purpose.He studied the photos ; studied the children's happy faces . And felt quite placid now at last.
He opened the case; took out his side-by-side Purdy and put in two number threes.
Two thunderous blasts resounded and two children ‘s heads exploded;
He put in another number three and turning the barrel to himself, leaned his neck onto the muzzle and pulled the trigger.
© Copyright 2016 donkylemore. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Commercial Fiction
Poem / Flash Fiction
Essay / Memoir
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