I just wrote this. I don't really remember writing it, I felt like I was asleep at my computer for about ten minutes. And hour after the last time I looked at the clock, I had this short story. I am going to be completely honest here: this has me kind of scared. I have written things like this before, but not nearly as disturbing for myself. I remember writing them too. I am guessing I subconsciously wrote this, and that has me scared.
Anyways, this will be the second short story I will have shared with this forum. To be honest, I am looking more for input of what it could mean for me rather than constructive criticism. Had I written it myself (as in remembered writing it and processing it) I would love constructive criticism, but this story just has me worried.
Please, help me understand this. After reading it, I have given it a title:
The Guilty
Smoke swirled from the barrel and the smell of cordite flitted through my nose. My ears were still ringing and sweat stung at my eyes. The woman sat slouched in the chair, the liquid pouring out of her nose and mouth. I could not believe what just happened before my own eyes.
The woman of my dreams, could she possibly be dead?
She had left my dreams to accompany me for a ride, driving in the fast lane of life. I loved her as she did I. And there she was, drooling away her life and staining the beige upholstered chair.
Her motives were unclear to me. Had I been abusive? Did I not listen well enough? If only she had told me before she did the unforgivable.
I know what it was though. I am selfish. Even now, I think of why she would leave me like that when she would know it would break my heart. I was not even considering the fact she would never taste again, never smell or touch or see what pleased her most. I did not even know what those things were. What a great husband.
Yet I could still not stop feeling pity for myself. I was alone now.
Perhaps I would join her. We would walk together once more. She would apologize for what she did to me and how she would never forgive herself for how she treated me. We would be happy once again.
But that would not happen; she left me for a reason. I wish I know what I did so I could fix myself before the big leap. I wouldn’t want to show up to see her and be the same person she hated. I wanted her to love me; I wanted her to be happy with me.
I stood up and lifted her body. It was still warm. I laid her out on the floor and folded her arms. The back of her head was a horrible sight. The pistol had stopped smoking. It was no instrument, it was a killer. If she didn’t buy the pistol, she never would have been able to leave me alone like this. I wouldn’t feel so low and so depressed. It was the pistol’s fault, not mine. It deserves to die.
Or maybe it deserves another life. Perhaps I should give it the satisfaction it wants with another pull of that trigger. Join my love and walk the world with her. Jump-start the car and speed down the fast lane.
But I could never do such a thing. I am too much a coward. Someone else would have to do it for me.
Oh why could she not have aimed the barrel at me first? Why could she not have been so merciful?
My hands began to shake and goose bumps lined the flesh across my back and arms. I felt much colder without her already. How I could live I, I do not know.
This thought seemed to solidify my morbid idea.
I could do it. I would join her. We would be happy again. I would be happy again. I would not have to be alone ever again. No more lonely nights wishing for someone just to say “Hello” and not to have been forgotten. She had blessed me with her presence, and now she is torturing me with her departure.
And how the people who had ignored me would cry, oh how they would ask themselves “Why? Why did he have to do such a horrible thing? It was all her fault. No, it wasn’t her fault; it was the gun’s fault. How could God have created such an instrument of destruction and despair?”
The newspaper would speak of the two lovers who committed suicide besides one another. How they had tried so hard to be happy in this world, but had been denied by others who had persisted in slowing down the fast lane
I would finally be remembered and given the thought and recognition I deserved. I would have my lover back with me and I wouldn’t have to be alone anymore.
Could I be happy with living though? There were things which still enticed me. I would not always have to be alone. I could find someone else, someone who would appreciate me and would not leave me alone.
Then I began crying. I did not even know why. I lay next to the angel and held her close to my body. She seemed so much warmer than me. Her eyes were still open. I could not force myself to look into them.
Oh, how those eyes looked at me right before she pulled the trigger. How they were desperate, afraid, alone. They made me feel scared. They made me feel like the entire world would end with her finger pulling that trigger. I was the guilty party, not the gun. I had sent her to the oblivion in which she would not be coming back. It was my fault. The woman of my dreams was condemned to non-existence by me. The gun is a tool of death, not the cause.
I began to weep. Her eyes, how they were filled with remorse when she pulled that trigger. I could only wonder what my own eyes looked like. I could only wonder what she had thought when she saw them. Had I looked scared? Had I looked saddened? Had I looked guilty?
I could not control my shaking. Her eyes had filled with red after she pulled that trigger. I had screamed out in excitement, and covered my mouth with surprise. I had thought she was simply bluffing, trying to get my attention. I was so very wrong, and now her eyes were haunting me.
How would my eyes look when I died? Would they look content; relieved? Or would they look afraid and desperate? Would they turn red with the gunshot, or would they remain that steel gray?
Only she would know. I would look into her eyes when I did it. I would give her that. I would let her see what it would be like to watch her loved one kill himself. I had to watch her do it, now it was her turn.
I picked up the pistol. Cold and ruthless, a machine molded to perfection. Perfect.
Perfect for destruction and despair.
I straddled her limp form and moved her hair out of her face. Her head rolled to the left, exposing the mutilated brain stem from her neck. I dropped the pistol and rolled off her body and painted the beige chair with the colors of my stomach.
She taunted me with her red eyes. They called me spineless, said I would never have the will to do it. She had the will, she was stronger than me, her eyes said. She left me; I would not dare to do the same to her.
Picking up the pistol, I straddled her again. Her eyes would see, oh yes, how I would make her hurt and show her how strong I am. She would cringe, scream with horror as my eyes turned red and my car lost control and totaled off the fast lane. Yes, I’d show her.
I began to grunt, trying to stir up the courage to do the act. Yes, I would do it, I just needed time. I had the tool, I have the cause. She is my cause as I was hers. I could not please her and she left me alone in the world. Both deaths were justified.
I was shaking faster with every breath I took. I could barely keep my grip on the pistol. I would do it, oh yes. I would not be alone anymore, I would be happy. I would be with my angel again. She always made me smile. Her eyes made me smile. The red in them made my blood boil with anger. Why would she leave me? Why did I deserve such cruelty?
I broke down again, sobbing uncontrollably. Her eyes, they would not permit me to do such an act. I saw her eyes before my own, alive and bright, then filled with fear and apprehension, and then red!
No! Not the red, I wouldn’t allow it! But too late, she was gone. The red overcame her, she was too weak. She could not allow herself to be strong and continue living. She had regretted her decision, but could not falter in front of me. It was my fault, I was guilty, and I let the red win. Her eyes were dead proof of that.
The sun cast a suitable red glare across the room. The beige carpets and furniture were covered with the red. The red! How it taunted me! I was alone, why did it have to continue taunting me! Wasn’t I punished enough?
I would not allow the red to take me too. It just would not be. The red had taken my angel, but it would not take me. I was still holding the pistol. I stood up and looked down at my angel’s defeated body. Oh, how she was still beautiful. If only she hadn’t left me, if only I hadn’t been the cause. I should have applied the brakes, but the pedal was stuck. And the gun was well oiled.
And oh, how her eyes glowed red! They condemned me to a life of depression and loneliness. How I hated that red, how I would not let it take her from me! She was mine; she was the only one who gave me a chance. The red did not care like she did. The red just wanted to use me.
If only she were alive and I on the floor, the red having consumed me. How she would feel, oh yes, how guilty and alone she would feel. I would be happy again. The red would love me so much. More so than that lonely gray.
The decision was mine. The gun would take action if I chose that path. It would stay quite if I decided to live. I had power over the red.
But how her eyes spoke to me! They invited me to join her, to be done with such a mediocre life and to be happy, happier than I ever was before! The red looked so lovely, so inviting, so warm…
I could be happy. I could rebuild. My steel gray eyes would stay that color. The red would spin my car out of control eventually, but it would not be by my finger’s bidding. I may have been the cause, the gun may have been the tool, but she had been the judge. It was her verdict that sentenced her to a life of red. I was my own judge! I would not succumb to the red yet.
With my decision made, the outside world finally spoke to me. The room was dark with blue and red lights flashing throughout the room. My eyes picked up the tune of sirens and shouting. I could not figure out what was happening. I held the gun close to my chest and looked at my angel lying on the floor.
When the door cracked at the knob and collapsed in, I raised my hands in front of me to protect me, to shield me from danger.
The red came for me. I tried to dodge it, but the red hit me in the chest. I dropped the pistol and fell on the ground next to my angel, my everlasting love.
Her eyes, oh how they were beautiful red.
Reply With Quote
