The Shot Heard Round The World

The room is silent. There is only the sound of the clock, so methodical and logical that it is nearly maddening.

There is a cup of coffee on the table. Black. Two spoonfuls of sugar collected on the bottom of the mug. He doesn’t plan to drink it. It is cold and tastes bitter in his mouth. But the sight of it is familiar and comforting.

There are dishes piled up in the sink. He should do something about them, but he can’t bring himself to.

He has been sitting in the same chair for seventy two hours. He can feel that his hair is limp and greasy, his face is covered in stubble, and he knows there are dark shadows under his eyes. But he couldn’t care less. She isn’t here to see him.

He watches the hour hand land on seven. Time for a drink.

He pushes himself back from the table and gets to his feet. Standing seems foreign and strange. Taking small steps, he crosses to the sink. The cabinet underneath holds his only comfort in the form of a bottle of vodka. He pours a tall glass full. One shot isn’t nearly enough. Taking a sip, feeling the liquid burn as it slides down his throat, he decides to take a walk. Not outside, no. After days in the dark, the sunlight would be blinding. And besides, he’s not ready to face anyone.

With slow, steady steps, he walks into the living room. His feet are beating out a rhythm on the floor. It matches the ticking of the clock and seems to be screaming her name. Ginny. Ginny. Ginny.

Their cat lays curled up on the worn, plaid couch. He scratches its ears absently as he passes and it jumps down to follow him, rubbing its head against his ankles.

He stops in front of the hall that leads to the bedroom. The door is shut, locking him out and holding the memories in. His breath catches in his throat and his heart stops beating for a split second. He hasn’t been in that room since the funeral, and now it is as if an invisible hand is pulling him toward it.

He finds himself inside, staring at the double bed against the wall. It is made up neatly. Her doing. She left everything clean and tidy and organized. A parting gift, he supposed. Her last way of letting him know she cared. But if she cared, she wouldn’t have gone away.

The room seems dreadfully, horribly empty without her. Her cosmetics litter the dresser. Her red lipstick is open. She had been wearing it when . . .

He watches the cat cross the room and jump onto the bed. It seems wrong, and somehow forbidden.

"Get down, Sylvester," he says. His voice is strangely raspy. It has been out of use for so long.

As he watches the animal rub its head against her pillow, his mind flashes suddenly with the image of her, sprawled on the bed. The sheets stained with her blood and a pistol near her open hand. He shuts his eyes against it, feeling his stomach turn over.

The pistol, he thinks. Where is the pistol? He cannot recall where he put it away. But suddenly he wants it in his hands.

He spends the next several minutes turning the room upside down. Finally he reaches the bedside table. Slowly, he pulls open the drawer.

There it is. Black and sleek and suddenly beautiful. He hesitates before picking it up. It feels heavy and strange in his hands. He turns it over, considering it. He thinks about the past week. About losing her, and how hard he tried to be strong. He runs over it again and again. He is so tired of crying, so tired of living alone.

As tears escape his eyes, he places the barrel of the gun against his temple. He holds his breath and counts to three before pulling the trigger.