Promises

Posted by Luthor on June 19, 2000 at 16:11:11:

Just thought I'd drop in and leave off my latest literary masterpiece. Taking a day off from deadlines and artwork to do a little writing. This one's a bit different from my usual effort. I like to explore my deep, sensitive side every once in awhile, in between elf-manglings and innard roasting. Chicks love a guy with a deep, sensitive side, so I figure writing touchy-feely stuff like this might help get me laid someday. Don't worry. It's short. If I get deep and sensitive for too long all at once, my colon tends to cramp up.

Have fun

--Luthor

Promises
by
Luthor

Early evening. The occasional tap tapping of drizzle on the rooftop mixes in careless harmony with the angry crackle of the wet-wood fire to produce a random symphony of dissident, primordial percussion. It is a gray night. Not the clear, crisp gray of morning that sharpens the wit and sends the blood racing in anticipation of the day to come, but the uncertain, fickle gray of things half remembered, of promises never kept. A gray neither dark nor light, alive nor dead. Uncaring, it does not nurture. It is sleep without dreams, a mobius strip. Endless. Pointless. It stands for nothing. Even the dripping is not rain, reckless and alive, but merely the passing of mist through the slumbering treetops where, too weary to remain aloft any longer, it falls forlorn and defeated to the ground below. Tears to mourn the absence of tears.

That kind of gray.

The woman stares hopelessly at the gathering darkness through the large picture window opposite the fireplace, seeing only her reflection in the cold glass. He hadn't come. He had promised her. Sworn. This was to have been their new beginning. A time to finally put the pain and anger of the past year behind them and start a new life. Together. They would be wiser this time, not repeat the foolish mistakes of the past. Everything was going to be all right, at last. He had given his word.

But he hadn't come.

Unable to endure the sight of the solitary figure staring back at her from inside the glass, she turns away. It is over. No more second chance. No more new life. The future ends here, now. The woman sighs. She is relieved, in a way. The uncertainty is gone. And the fear. All has already been decided. One way or another, she had vowed to herself, the pain would end tonight. This was to be her last day of emptiness.

One promise, at least, will be kept.

Her bare feet make no sound on the plush carpet as she walks slowly into the bedroom. She stands for a long moment framed in the open doorway, gazing sadly at the empty bed. A single white rose adorns the red satin bedspread atop the pillow on the side nearest the wall. His side. She smiles ruefully, amused by her own foolishness. What had she been thinking? He hates flowers. Just one more meaningless gesture amid a lifetime filled with them. Her dark eyes scan the familiar setting, as if somehow seeing it for the first time. She stares at the old oaken nightstand beside the bed, remembering her excitement the day they had run across the faded treasure hidden among the piles of worthless junk at a local Flea Market. When had it been? Two, no, three years ago. In the spring. It seems so much longer now. Another lifetime. She smiles as she recalls the fun they'd had stripping away the layers of old paint and shellac to reveal the beauty hidden underneath, and then the weeks of sanding and finishing to get it just right. Six coats of the best tung oil varnish. Hand rubbed. He had insisted. It would last another 100 years, he'd said, might as well do it right. The project had taken forever, but the results had been worth it. She wonders how many owners the ancient artifact has known, and who would inherit it after she was gone. Funny how something made of wood and metal could outlive so many made of flesh and blood. She hopes the next owners will understand how special it is.

"They'll probably paint it purple to match their drapes," she says aloud. The sound of her own voice startles her. It is somehow out of place amid the solitude. An intrusion. Quietly, as if reluctant to further disturb the silence of her reverie, the woman makes her way to the edge of the bed. Seating herself next to the treasured night table, she places her hand on its' cool, smooth surface, wishing to experience not merely the touch, but the essence, the spirit of the wood. She remains motionless for a moment, eyes closed, savoring the distant echoes of soft whispers and gentle laughter, the shadows of a lifetime now lost.

"It's time," she proclaims at last, forcing herself back to reality. Her hand moves delicately over the surface of the nightstand, almost as if caressing a lover. Slowly, deliberately, her fingertips touch the shiny brass handle of its' single shallow drawer. She opens it and reaches inside. "God.." she breathes as her trembling fingers encounter the cold, metallic object they seek.. She can feel her heart pounding in her chest as she withdraws the heavy instrument and holds it awkwardly in her left hand. It is unfamiliar. Alien. She hates guns. She hadn't wanted the awful thing in the house, but he had pleaded with her. It was for protection, he'd insisted, although she always suspected he just enjoyed the feeling of power the deadly toy afforded him. Men are such boys at heart. She had finally given in to his wishes -- hadn't she always? -- but she had never felt comfortable knowing that the pistol was there, hidden away, so close to where they slept. Now she is relieved. It will make things so much simpler. Pills are too unsure, and she is much too cowardly to slit her wrists. Besides, far too many survive those sorts of methods. She could not bear the thought of becoming one of those pathetic creatures who attempt suicide and fail.

No. A bullet will do nicely.

The woman stares at the strange object she holds in her hand, studying the long, dark barrel and notched cylinder just behind. The word Ruger is stamped into the heavy metal, and then Blackhawk and the designation .44 Mag. Her gaze takes in every groove, every curve of the old-fashioned revolver, as her mind tries to deal with the power, the finality the awesome weapon represents. With the palm of her right hand she eases back the hammer. One click. And then another. Just like he'd shown her.

"Cocked," she smiles, tears welling up in her dark eyes. The term had always amused her. Freudian, obviously. Her hand trembles as she raises the weapon to her temple, the hard steel muzzle coming to rest just above her left ear. She closes her eyes and takes a deep, ragged breath.

And then pulls the trigger.

The sound of the hammer striking the empty chamber fills the stillness like a thunderclap. The woman stiffens. Her eyes open wide. She can feel her heart racing, and her breath is coming in short, shallow gasps. What had happened? Is she dead? Her hand is shaking so badly she can hardly control it as she lowers the heavy pistol to her lap and gazes at it in bewilderment. It takes her befuddled mind several seconds to fully comprehend what had taken place. Then, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, she begins to laugh hysterically.

"Can't kill yourself with an empty gun, girl," she giggles. The absurdity of the situation begins to overwhelm her. How typical! Her death is turning into a comedy of errors. Just like her life. "Bullets," she observes, again reaching into the open drawer and retrieving the half-empty box of .44 Magnum cartridges hidden unobtrusively beneath an old copy of Playgirl magazine. "Got to have bullets." She feels giddy, almost euphoric, as she opens the box and begins to load the shiny brass shells into the revolver's empty chambers. He had made a point of demonstrating to her how the gun worked, although, at the time, she had wanted nothing to do with it. He had been quite adamant, however. For safety, he'd said. He had shown her how to load and unload the piece, how to aim, how to store it properly, and had recited a litany of firearm safety do's and don'ts, most of which she only pretended to listen to -- It wasn't as if she had ever intended to actually use the horrid thing, after all. He'd even made her take a few practice shots at the targets he had set up in the woods in back of the house. The experience had been unsettling. Her ears had continued to ring for days afterward.

"Six," she murmurs as the final cartridge slides effortlessly into the pistol's last empty chamber. What had he said about loading the weapon safely? Something about a single-action revolver. It had seemed important to him. What was it? She can't quite remember. No matter. This is hardly the time to be overly concerned with firearm safety. She again stares at the loaded gun resting in her lap, her tear-filled eyes making the weapon seem somehow unsubstantial, indistinct. Unreal. Through the haze of her blurred vision, her mind wanders, revisiting the hallmarks of the life she is about to end. She remembers her sixth birthday party, and the kiss she'd gotten from Brian Wilson behind the big willow tree in her back yard while everyone else was eating cake and ice cream inside. It had been quick. Little more than a peck. Nothing particularly memorable about it, really, but it had been her first.

A girl always remembers her first kiss.

The images begin to flow freely now, unbidden, as if somehow possessing a will of their own, filling her consciousness with the sights and sounds of bygone glories and half-remembered tears. She recalls her disappointing second place finish at the 9th grade regional Spelling Bee. She had misspelled Chrysanthemum. She'd been expected to win, and had been inconsolable, crying herself to sleep that night. In the morning, she had awakened to find a beautiful red flower sitting atop the dresser next to her bed. The attached card read: I can't spell it either, so I got you a rose instead. I love you. -- Dad.

"I love you too, daddy," she whispers, tears streaming down her cheeks. The images continue, one after another. A kaleidoscope of memories. She is 16, on her first real date. Jimmy Witherspoon has her breasts in his hands and is kissing her hard, throbbing nipples. Then she is 17, feeling Jimmy's hard cock enter her for the very first time. She cries. He would never ask her out again. Images. She sees her father's face the day she finally tells him she is pregnant. He doesn't say a word, just stares. The look in his eyes breaks her heart. Three weeks later she has the abortion. Images. Away from home for the first time. She is 18, a college freshman, sitting at her desk gazing dreamily at Professor Hawkins, her handsome English Lit instructor. She pursues him shamelessly for months, only to learn on the last day of the semester that he is involved in a long-term relationship with the soccer coach, Mr. Myers. She gets drunk later that same night at a local bar and gives herself to some man named Fred. Or is it Ted? More images. She is19, picking out her first new car. A Suburu. Blue. Still more. She is 21, and in love. He is strong, handsome. And he adores her! More. Her marriage. The good times. Happily ever after. Like in the fairy tales. And still more. The fairy tale ends. Anger. Betrayal. Pain. So much pain.

Images.

Too many. Too fast. She is overwhelmed by the ghosts of her past. The woman desperately tears her gaze from the judgement she holds in her hand, unable to deal with the myriad images it has evoked. Without meaning to, her eyes fix on the full-length mirror mounted on the wall opposite the bed. She gasps. Her reflection startles her. She sees a woman sitting alone in her bedroom, holding a loaded gun, about to take her own life. The reality of the situation washes over her like a frigid ocean wave, stark and terrifying! What is she doing? Does she really want to die? Now? Like this? Over a man? Her mind reels. Over a God damned MAN? She suddenly stands erect, eyes wide, gaping in astonishment at her reflection, the final image of what she has become.

"NO!" she screams at the top of her lungs, her strength and pride finally overcoming the depths of her depression. "I WON'T!" Rage suddenly floods through every cell of her being, driving out the despair that had held sway for so long. No! She won't just roll over and die! Fuck him! Who needs the candy-assed son-of-a-bitch? She has a life of her own, and she is damn well going to live it, with or without Mr. Six-coats-of-god-damned-fucking-tung-oil-varnish!!

Repelled by the sight of the weak, fragile creature staring back at her from inside the glass, the woman raises her arm and angrily hurls the hated revolver at the ghost of her despair. The heavy gun-butt strikes the mirror dead-center, shattering its' smooth surface and sending jagged shards of the image it contains crashing to the floor below. The mirror explodes in a deafening crescendo of glass and smoke, the sound of its' destruction reverberating back and forth off the walls of the small room like thunder. The woman reels, the sheer force of the detonation propelling her backwards.

And then there is silence.

The woman stands amid the debris, a look of melancholy on her tear-stained face. Her anger is gone, shattered along with the cold glass of the mirror. She stares forlornly at the scattered pieces, seeing her life reflected in the countless tiny shards, all now irretrievably sundered. Too late she remembers his warning. This is a single-action revolver, he'd said. Always leave the hammer resting in an empty chamber, otherwise it might go off accidentally if it gets bumped or dropped. She gazes down at the dark hole just under her left breast, watching in fascination as the deep, red stain begins to spread over the sheer fabric of her blouse. Such a small thing, a bullet. Insignificant, really. Hard to believe something so tiny could have so profound an effect on the human body. She feels a chill begin to spread from the center of her chest outward. She shivers. Her fingers and toes begin to tingle. It is becoming hard to breathe. She sits on the edge of the bed once again, her legs too weak now to support her. She wonders how long it will take them to find her body. Days, at least. Maybe a week. She hadn't considered that. Closed casket then, for obvious reasons. She feels dizzy. The room begins to spin. With a sigh, she lays back onto the soft mattress, eyes wide, staring up at the ceiling.

Such an odd sensation, dying. Nothing at all like they show in the movies. It doesn't happen all at once. People die a little at a time, it seems. In pieces. She can feel her body begin to dissolve. The complex, intricate symbiosis that has made possible the miracle of her existence for so long is breaking down, unraveling. Her heart, lungs, liver, all the various organic and cellular micro-systems that together comprise the marvelous thinking machine called a human being are coming apart. Dying, one after another. She can feel it. She wonders why she does not also feel sadness, or anger. Or fear. Some emotion to acknowledge the magnitude of her loss. But there is nothing. The time for emotion is past. She is merely a spectator, watching the curious process of the ending of a life.

More images. A man. A stranger, and yet not. He is gazing at her with sadness. There are children with him. A boy and a girl. She has never met them, but she knows she loves them. And then they are grown, and with children of their own. The cycle repeats, over and over, a mathematical progression, reaching out into infinity, until, at last, the images begin to dissolve, and all she can see in her mind's eye are the jagged, glittering pieces of the shattered mirror, reflecting the light of what might have been.

The sound of sobbing. Somewhere, someone is crying. She wonders who. The reflections in her mind intensify. Tiny explosions dance before her eyes. Bright, multi-colored fireworks echo through her brain, rocketing madly back and forth, ever-growing in intensity. She is overwhelmed by a blinding white light, an overpowering brilliance that burns with the intensity of an exploding Sun and warms every atom of her being. Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the light begins to fade, until there is, at last, only darkness. And then that, too, is gone.

But there is no one left to care.