Matt’s home was a rusted shell of what was, at one time, a perfectly good trailer. It lay dying on a small patch of land some one hundred feet of the main road along a dirt driveway created by the wheels of Matt’s various vehicles over the past decade–two of which found their final resting place in Matt’s yard. The yard, if one would call it that, was defined by worn patches of ground and weeds that weren’t quite as high as the ones on the perimeter.
The headlights of his pick up bobbed up and down as his truck stumbled over the ruts and uneven ground of his drive. The truck suspension squealed in complaint. As he pulled next to his trailer he cut the engine and flicked the headlights off. The trailer was dark. Matt had outgrown his dependence of lights. He, at one time, had several lamps that he would switch on when he would return form his excursions to the bar. But, one light bulb blew, then another, then another. He had not replaced the bulbs and did not feel the need to kick himself for not making the thirty- minute drive to the local Walmart to pick up new ones. He had grown accustomed to the darkness and found the convenience of artificial light to be less and less necessary. There were only two surviving light sources in the trailer: the light from the refrigerator and the light of the stove. And even the light of the stove was questionable, as he never used it.
The trailer was a mess, as Matt would admit. A vast array of empty alcoholic beverage containers was tucked in every last available bit of open space; only to be accented with the occasional discarded fast food wrapper. One could not spit without hitting a beer can, beer bottle or empty fifth…all ranging from Budweiser to Miller to Jim Beam to Smirnoff. Sure, he was an alcoholic, but no one could say that he didn’t at least have a wide range of tastes.
Welcomed by the darkness of his home, Matt shuffled through the garbage on the floor with only dim moonlight and memory to guide him. He made his way to into the living room. He was sore. His cheek throbbed a dull pain that promised to be sharper when he sobered. A small section of the couch was clear. This was a familiar spot for Matt. While he did have a bed which was just a mattress on the floor), there were many times, this spot on the couch was Matt’s final spot of the night. Mostly on nights he was too tired, drunk or drained to even attempt a trip to the bedroom. This was one of those nights.
A spring on the couch whined as Matt flopped onto it. He smelled the faint scent of dust. Across from the couch was an old TV, which at one time, had worked. But a well- flung Jim Beam bottle had put an end to that. The screen, cracked and frowning, ogled accusingly at Matt. All it had wanted to do was entertain the man with what few channels its meager antennae could sift from the area, but a late night news rerun, a foul temper and a sturdy fifth bottle had put an end to its days.
Matt stared at its dark screen. It was the culmination of his life: empty, cracked, ugly and useless. Its purpose had been stripped away–its existence hollow and simplified to that of a table that held even more of Matt’s clutter, including the remnants of the Jim Beam bottle that destroyed the television’s screen. The only reason Matt had not taken the TV to the dump was that it wasn’t important enough for him to tend to.
Matt felt empty. He had no alcohol to drink, which would have been his ritual at this time
of night. Without such, he had no purpose to stay awake for. And with the fight at the bar going a good distance to sober him up, Matt was not in the position to simply pass out, as was also his ritual. So he sat in his living room, a chorus of crickets outside and his own heavy breathing his only companions.
He reached underneath the couch and felt around until he found what he was looking for: a
cigar box well flattened so that it could clear the low space of beneath the couch. It rattled as he slid it out and placed it on his lap. He flipped the lid up and turned the box so the moonlight would reveal its contents. In it lay a .38 caliber handgun–simple, black and dull. He had bought it over a half dozen years ago from Bud. Where Bud friend acquired it from, Matt did not know, nor did he care. Matt only cared for its purpose. Accompanying the handgun in the cigar box were five bullets. At one time they occupied the chambers of the revolver, but had long since been relieved of it. The sixth bullet, however, remained.
He slid the cylinder out and with a quick glance verified that a single bullet remained in its chamber. He began to spin the cylinder. It was not oiled or tended to since he had gotten the revolver, so it did not spin as freely as it should. He looked out the front door across his dilapidated yard and toward the street. There was no traffic. He wondered, as he always did as he spun the cylinder, how many cars would pass by before his body was discovered. How many suns would set behind his house before he would be removed in a body bag? How many people would care? None, he supposed. There was nobody left in the world that gave a damn about him. But he really didn’t give a damn about anyone himself. Funny how things worked out like that.
He snapped the cylinder into place. Remembrances of the past rushed through his head. Normally he suppressed such memories; a feat of sheer will bolstered by both alcohol and bull-headed stubbornness. But, in moments such as these, he allowed them–intrusive, beguiling memories. Memories that teased him with happier times. But these were short-lived. He would not allow them for long, as fate would not have such things for mortal man. In one fell swoop, all his happiness would be stripped away. He was not deemed worthy of it. Scant good memories were soon squelched and beset by more lingering, familiar ones: regret, misery and helplessness. They settled upon his shoulders and throbbed like a dull, aching pain. But along with them, they carried a numbness. They allowed him the ability to do what he was about to do. He lifted the revolver to his temple. Some stubbornness echoed in Matt to not let them defeat him. By taking his own life, it would be the final submission. But Russian roulette allowed for an out, of sorts. Even though Matt would squeeze the trigger, it would be fate that took his life, should it strike true of the single bullet that lay hidden in its chambers. Cause of death, Matt justified, would not be suicide, but pure random chance. There was some distant, rational part of Matt’s mind that knew better, but did not have the audacity to tell him.
He cocked the hammer of the .38. I am a house of cards, he thought. Matt allowed for one last picture in his mind. A cute blonde with smile that could turn a man sane. His eyes welled. I failed you. I’m sorry, he thought.
At times such as these, Matt allowed for her name to cross his lips. Only at times such as these, could Matt summon the courage to bring her to the forefront of his thoughts. He spoke his last word before letting the hammer of the revolver fall.
“Jessica.”
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