Postpsuedomodernesque

I write things down. Sometimes they can be funny, sometimes they are sad. Most times they are pretentious and other times they are false.

An Increasingly Accurate Display of Impending Doom [or you know whatever]

Rachel and Stephen were sitting at their dining room table. Stephen was resting the weight of a Colt revolver on the glass top. “I’ve tried this world, I really have, it’s been pleasant at times, but for the most part I’ve struggled: I’ve struggled to get out of bed, struggled to go to sleep, hell last night I was constipated. I can’t even shit without a fight in this world.”

“We all struggle Stephen, “ Rachel looked at the revolver. She winced at the indents it made in Stephen’s hand. “It’s just a part of life,”

“That’s my point, I’m tired of this and/or that being a part of life, I’m tired of being a part of life.

“So then you’re just going to leave me here with your bloody corpse and an empty apartment?”

“Do you want me to go to Lowe’s and get a tarp?” Stephen reached in his back pocket for his car keys. “ I think they’re on sale this week anyway.”

“No I don’t want you to get a tarp, I want you to throw that gun in the trash and come to bed.”

“But, then I’ll have to wake up the next morning, I’ll have an eight hour taste of what could have been and then I’ll be back to the old.” Stephen pressed the gun deep into his hair. “I’ll go out on the deck if you are that concerned with the mess.” Stephen got up from the dining room table and pushed in his chair. He moved through the kitchen and opened the French doors out onto the deck. Rachel followed him closely trying to hold his hand as he walked away.

“I don’t care about the mess, I just want you alive, if you’re intent on making a scene you can crash a car into a building or set fire to a forest,” Rachel grabbed his hand and looked into his tearing eyes. “I just want you to be here, I love you why can’t you see that I love you.”

“I believe you dear, and I love you just as much, but not as much as I hate living this life.” Stephen kept the gun planted on his temple. He stood motionless with the exception of his trigger finger, which caressed the guns chamber.

“What’s so wrong with this life, with our life?”

“Nothing’s wrong that can be fixed through conversation, I love you, but there’s nothing left in me.” Stephen pulled the trigger. The gun went off as Stephen fell to his side. Later in the week Rachel made funeral preparations, ordered a pizza and called her mother.