The Only Option

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
Tit for tat?

Submitted: January 03, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 03, 2012



The pistol felt heavy and cold in his hand.

He had loved her once, and she had loved him, and everything had been whole and made sense. There had been money, friends, laughter, joy, and she had smiled. Everything about her fit. She was simple, elegant, beautiful, complicated, angry, shy, real. She was all he had needed at the end of a long day, or at the end of any day; he loved everything about her. He loved her curves, the way she felt in his hands, the way she looked. She knew when to speak, and what to say, and how to say it. She had been everything.

He checked the safety was off.

There was a moment he remembered, a moment far-off-when, that he could see through the glimmer of car lights in his apartment window. She had come up to him then, with a stiffness he had never seen before, and told him she was leaving him. She had been broken, but she would never tell him how or when or by whom; her lips and eyes had wanted to say, but she wouldn't. Someone would love him, but she said it couldn't be her, as her eyes ran clear and blue and brown. He thought she had been nervous, but maybe it was the coffee too; her teeth were stained with it, and her throat was sore for practicing the speech. It had been a good speech, and heartfelt, but practiced, and both of them had known it.

He loaded a single round into the chamber.

The weeks had been a hazy mess after that. If he forced himself, he could barely make out images of work and people and questions amongst the window pane, but the strain was too much and he would collapse backwards in the chair. He couldn't pick out a single day from the last one, two, or three months, and none of them had mattered. All of them had been days, nothing more than that, and the meld of day thirty-nine into day sixty-seven was a vague proof that only he knew. It was as if the whole time had been one long hour, one wasted hour, a hodge-podge of big and little and great and small and a meaningless jumble of emptiness. And it didn't matter now.

He raised the gun with his arm, measuring the weight, and the tears began to fall.

He threw the gun over the side of the bridge, into the water.

When they revoked his gun license, that had been tough. He didn't need her any more.

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