An empty bottle of whiskey rolls out of his hand and onto the floor. Crust flakes from his eyes and his pupils drift around the room. The man sits up, but when he tries to stand, he falls back into the chair. Shaking with frustration, he firmly grasps his cane. Able to stand now, he limps to his fridge, ignoring the stacks of bills on the counter.
The phone rings and he answers it with a fake smile, says goodbye, and slams the phone back on its platform.
The man staggers with his cane to his bedroom walk-in closet. When he flips the light switch, no light comes on. Cursing quietly to himself, he begins feeling for something on the top shelf. A small shoebox.
Found it.
Cradling the shoebox underneath one arm, while using the other to balance himself, he makes his way back to the living room. He makes sure to grab the television remote before he sits down. The same video has been paused on the screen for a few hours. A home video of the last time they were all together. He presses play, then pause, then rewind, then play again and again, and then a few more times.
He snaps out of his nostalgia when he feels some of the pain come back. The doctors told him the painkillers should ease the pain a little, but they can only numb so much.
The box, he almost forgot about it. Sliding the lid off and placing it by his feet, he tears up at what’s inside. Some pictures, memories, and some souvenirs from their tour. Underneath is a small, sealed bottle of expensive bourbon and a bullet with, “FLY,” written on the side placed beside a small .44 snub nose handgun.
Rewinding the video, he takes that shot of bourbon, presses play, and tosses the remote on the stained carpet.
Scared, but smiling, he raises the gun to his left temple. Old friends laugh and celebrate together as they tease the cameraman. They take turns high-fiving after different drinking games. The metal of the barrel feels cold. He doesn’t remember the trigger feeling so heavy, so hard to squeeze.
Harder…
…further…
Moments away, he freezes when he hears the unfamiliar sound of his doorbell ringing. Trembling, he tucks the gun in his bathrobe pocket, steadies himself on his cane, and anxiously makes his way to the door. He creaks it open and the sun shines on his face.
“Hi Mr. Eli! You’re still coming to my dance recital tonight, right Mr. Eli? You didn’t forget again, did you?”
Eli looks at the tiny girl, no older than five, desperately trying to hold back tears, trying not to choke up.
“Yeah,” Eli takes his hand out of his pocket, off the gun, “I…no, I didn’t forget. I’ll be there tonight.”
“Pinky promise?
“Pinky promise.”
“Mom used to tell me that you can never break a pinky promise. Right, Mr. Eli?”
“She’s…yes, your mother was right.”
“I’ll see you later then! Bye Mr. Eli!”
“Goodbye, Lily.”
Alexander Morgan is a fiction writer who favors suspenseful stories that may be considered experimental by some readers. He began his writing career a little over a year ago since separating from the military. Centum Press’ 100 Voices Anthology is a previous publication he has had the opportunity to be involved with.
Broken, Not Destroyed is a short piece touching on depression and suicide, along with the impact it can have on those close to the one suffering.