Death-grip (work in progress)

Someone he thought he loved lured him to his death, yet he clings to denial, numbing his rejection night after night. Snow Patrol’s Chasing Cars on the radio. A kitchen knife will do. He grips and presses it to his chest over his heart. He swigs the whiskey. A phone call from Mom, he lets it go to voicemail. Tomorrow is another day. He slides blade into knife block, turns off the radio and goes to bed.

Succs from work. He empties his pocket and discards 3ml in drawer. Yaz Only You blaring. The second drawer contains an old ammunition case with 3 generations of war medals and .38 special. He loads one bullet in the chamber. Russian roulette. Refills glass with taint fluid, swallows hard and pulls trigger. Blank.

Refills, another hard swallow. Spins barrel. Tip in 7th rib- an unobstructed shot to the heart. Blank.

Repeat.

Bang!

The shot ricochets, street car alarm screeches , a dog barking across the way, the wind howling echos of shot.

Sirens.

Blood splatter on table and adjacent wall. The mobile miraculously intact, vibrates between glass shards embedded. Unknown caller.

Voicemail: silence…”hey, it’s me…ah, it’s been awhile. I like to talk. I miss you. I understand if you…please call.”

Yaz Only You replays.