ATTEMPTED SUICIDE
Alister dropped an empty bottle of Jack Daniels between his feet, and it clattered across the floor and shattered. He stumbled and fell on the edge of the bed in a sitting position.
“Completely useless—that’s what you are.”
He licked his lips with a pasty tongue and tried to steady the room, which spun around him. Jagged pieces of broken glass spread across the floor encouraged him to chuckle. “You’re dangerous to the careless, just like me.”
Though tired and numb, he couldn’t escape the idea that he was alone now. It had been over a month since he had discovered his wife and daughter dead. And every moment of every day he thought about them.
“I miss you both.”
His speech was slurred, and every time he closed his eyes, the reproachful gaze from Sharon forced his eyes open again.
“You’ll offer me no reprieve for a couple hours of rest, will you?”
Alister stood and tried to balance himself.
“But if it is not you, it will be someone else. I see no other way to escape this.”
He stumbled to his bureau and shards of glass that dug into the bottom of his feet gave him pause. The floor behind him had footprints that increasingly darkened with his blood, and a small puddle formed where he stood.
“I deserve so much worse.”
He opened the top drawer and removed a gun hidden beneath his folded clothes. He collided with the walls as he made his way into the bathroom.
“You,” he said to the man in the mirror, no longer recognizing the person that looked back at him. The shape of his skull was long and narrow, and his cheekbones protruded. The skin that covered his face glowed bright white and appeared to be stretched tight. The eyes sat deep in their sockets and were surrounded by deep purple rings, devoid of life and emotion.
“You monster,” Alister said. He slapped his reflection. He spat on it and a long string of saliva that rolled down the mirror distorted what he saw.
A heavy breath behind him quickly turned him around, but no one was there.
Four weeks earlier, Alister had stepped around the lifeless body of a man that had tried to help him when he decided to lie in the path of his vehicle.
“I can’t get the sound of your last gasp out of my mind.”
His intention was suicide, but he was left unharmed, and the other man was left dead.
“Please stop,” he said as he covered his ears. The sound repeated itself over and over like the lips it had come from were pressed against his ears.
“I should’ve stayed in the house and dealt with my sorrow alone. I didn’t mean for that to happen to you.”
He looked at the gun, verified it had bullets and looked back at his reflection.
“Look at what you’ve done.”
He pulled back the hammer.
“You deserve your pain and misery, but you look to take the coward’s way out.”
And without contemplation, he raised the barrel of the gun and pushed it into his mouth. He pulled the trigger.
Click.
His eyes grew wide.
Click.
He whimpered and gagged on the taste of the barrel.
Click. Click. Click.
He dropped the gun and it fell into the sink.
“Damn it.”
He pressed his hands on the edge of the sink and bowed his head.
“This is how my life is going to be forever, isn’t it?”
He raised his eyes to the mirror.
“You’re weak,” he said, and he fought the desire to submit to the curse. It would be so much easier to close his eyes if the accusations stopped.
“No,” he said. “I remember what you did to my grandmother, father and mother. To Sharon and Becca. You demeaned them, too, but at least you allowed them the luxury of dying.”
He picked up the gun, aimed it at his reflection and fired. The gun kicked in his hands and the mirror exploded. Glass flew through the air and slashed at his skin.
Alister flinched, dropped the gun and staggered backward. He fell into the bathtub and his ears rang. Visions of Becca floating facedown in a pool of bloodstained bathwater sent him out of the tub in a panic.
He retreated to the doorway and looked at the tub. The clear image of Sharon on the floor facedown surrounded by blood and Becca floating facedown in the bathtub turned him away.
“No, you don’t,” he said, his alcohol-induced buzz gone. He hurried out of the room and started down the hallway.
“I’m in hell.”
Halfway down the hallway, he stopped and placed his back against the wall. As he sobbed, tears streaked his face. He slid down the wall and sat.
“Five times it misfired.”
He laughed to himself at first, but it soon built up to a laugh hard enough to make his stomach hurt. The idea of it being impossible to die was maddening, and it dared him to test that theory again.
“Yet the moment I aimed it away, it fired.”
Once inside the bathroom, he retrieved the gun, reloaded it with six bullets and squeezed off a test round into the wall.
The gun fired, and the sound hurt his ears. The smell of gunpowder was strong and clouded the air.
He placed the gun into his mouth and squeezed the trigger three times.
Click! Click! Click!
He aimed the gun away and squeezed the trigger and the recoil kicked his hand back. He tested the last bullet in his mouth, and the hammer slammed down with a dull click.
Alister stared at himself in a jagged piece of mirror dangling loosely from the frame. His mind focused on the unpleasant smell that filled his nostrils. The ringing in his ears drowned out the sound of his tongue being sizzled by the hot barrel.
Alister pulled back the shade and peered out the kitchen window. The paperboy picked up his bicycle and got on it. He had a sack full of newspapers slung over his shoulder, and he looked at Alister’s house as he rode away.
He noticed the lawn was as tall as the boy and the mailbox was so full the door was stuck open with letters hanging out.
He flicked the shade closed, and his hand hit a drinking glass off the countertop. It fell to the floor and landed safely on a two-foot pile of trash.
Alister inspected the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes, which had migrated across the countertop, and trash on the floor was in high mounds all over the house. Bugs and critters had carved out a slick, narrow path through it.
“What have I become?”
Every cabinet door and drawer had been left open, and the contents had been dumped on the floor. Food scraps, soiled laundry and many other unidentifiable things added to the mound.
Alister turned the faucet. The pipes whined, and no water came out. He looked at the empty pantry closet and refrigerator that had been left ajar.
His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He expected the process of starving to death to be lengthy and painful.
“Good,” he said, and he meant it. “I deserve nothing less.”
No experience could compare with the guilt that consumed his mind and the ache that filled his heart.
The lights in the house flickered and went out.
“That’s even better,” he said, encased in complete darkness.
Alister sat up and found himself battling confusion.
“Something isn’t right.”
His body was soaked with sweat, and concern pushed him to his feet. The house was dim, but not dim enough to hide the path routed through the lanes of garbage.
He belched and tasted something sweet.
“Oh no,” he said. He noticed the bulge of his belly. The hunger pains were gone.
Alister hurried to the kitchen. He slipped and fell on the slick floor before arriving at the closed pantry door. He snatched the door handle and yanked it open. Food stocked the shelves.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
He glanced over his shoulder; the refrigerator door was closed. He had no doubt it was full of food, but it would spoil without power in the house.
“Damn it.”
He kicked the pile of garbage and it exploded, spraying the walls and sticking like glue.
“How many more did it get last night?”
He plopped down on a pile of trash firm enough to support his body weight. He ran taut fingers through his hair and sighed.
Three loud knocks on the front door drew his attention. Maybe death decided to come for him and it was being polite enough to announce its arrival.
“Sheriff’s Department,” someone said from behind the door.
Alister lowered his chin and shook his head. “And how many more will it get before this day is done?”