A story about…a guy I know

He walked walked in his front door at about 3:07 am. The house was dark and quiet but had the faint smell of a recently blown out candle. He placed his keys on the table in the hallway and shuffled into the kitchen. The dry stale alcohol taste in his mouth was overwhelming as he opened the refrigerator for a bottle of water. He fell into a chair at the table in his kitchen, the legs made a disgruntled scraping noise on the hard wood floor, scuffing it. As he sipped the water, a bit dripping down his chin, he dug through his pockets. A business card with blurry words strewn across it, a few crumpled dollars, some loose change, a .45 caliber bullet, a piece of paper with some hastily scribbled directions to somewhere he had been earlier that day, and about 1 gram of genuine jeans lint. He stared baffled at the collection of pocket stuffings on his table, somehow unable to recall the items origins or purposes. As the morning set in he came to in his chair, dry mouthed and aching horribly . He stood up and about 6 different parts of his 27 year old body cracked. He picked up his half empty open bottle of water and turned on the radio. The cd inside spun to life and chattered inside the player for a moment then began to play a scratchy recording of “old age” by nirvana. A feeling came over him upon hearing the voice and musical sounds coming from the speakers. Something was eerily familiar and faint memories began to fill his mind. The business card in his pocket was from a local funeral parlor. He had picked it up the previous day to give to leave for his family. The paper was not directions but a short note of apology to everyone he knew. The dollar bills had smashed between them a receipt from a gun store for a box of .45 ammunition. The last item was the hollow point .45 ACP round that was amidst the other items. The bullet that was intended for his temple. His brain. Hi pain. And his death. Only now it was not a bullet. Just a shell. Horrified at this realization he noticed a wet spot on the shoulder of his shirt. He touched the spot and looked at his moist finger tips. Red. It was his blood. Even more distraught he followed the damp trail of blood to his head where he found the hole. He was not hung over. He was dead. The bullet had been fired. Spent. Spent, like his short tragic life. Spent like his wasted investment in humanity. He sat eyes filled with tears or horror and sadness, trembling, cold, dead. His family and friends crying around him. A lesser famous member of the 27 club.

3 months ago  /  3 notes