Want

Crystal clutched her shoulder, blood seeping through slender spaces her fingers left on the soft, sanguine skin. She could not look away from the blood, but her periphery revealed much. George had put the gun down and was pacing. Her ears still rang from the shot, but she could hear him muttering to himself. Something about justice. He kept using the word "fair". She wondered momentarily if he knew what it meant. She almost chuckled, but the smell of blood and gunpowder dictated 'smirk' instead.

"George, you fucking asshole. I'm gonna die."

"Oh, shut the fuck up. I shot you in the shoulder."

Crystal took a deep breath and tried to move. No way.

"George, listen to me. It doesn't matter where you shot me if I bleed to death. You gotta take me to the hospital. Just drop me at the ER. I won't say shit."

He cocked his head to the side. It was a habit he had. Crystal had always called him 'the parrot' behind his back.

"Why the fuck would I take you to the hospital?"

"'Cause you fucking shot me! Because they can stop me from dying. Are you fucking mental?"

"I'm not taking you to the hospital."

"Why, George? What the fuck are you doing? What do you want?"

He cocked his head again and scratched his chin thoughtfully. Crystal was beginning to feel faint. None of it mattered anymore.

"What do I want? I wanted to fucking love you, bitch!"

"Then why didn't you?"

"I tried."

"You didn't try hard enough."

George walked into the kitchen and she could hear the ice cubes kiss the glass before he drowned them in gin. Fucking think, Crystal! She was fading, but there was time. But that was the joke. It had always been fading, and there had never been enough time. She could no longer see, but she could hear him. He was right in front of her.

"How could I have tried harder? Tell me..."

"Fuck you, George."

"How...?"

She felt a slight surge of energy, followed by a pain so immense that it had a color. Deep, opaque.

"You want to know how? You could have stopped thinking about yourself for five minutes. You could have not fucking shot me. You could have been a decent person. But you're not. You're an asshole. And a stupid one at that."

"Call me an asshole again..."

"And what, asshole, you'll kill me? I'm dying, motherfucker. You failed. You didn't want to kill me, but you fucked up. Like you fucked up our relationship. Like you've fucked everything up for your whole life. You want to know why I married you? I felt sorry for you. And I felt worthless. I felt like I deserved your pathetic ass. Maybe I did."

There was silence for a minute or so. Enough time for Crystal to reflect. She would never pick up her dry cleaning. They would never know why. She could feel her mind shutting off.

"Pick up my dry cleaning?"

"Huh?"

"My fucking dry cleaning, can you pick it up after I die?"

"You're not going to die."

"I am dying, you idiot. You can see the blood, right?"

"Don't die...please...I..."

"Don't say you're sorry. Whatever you do, don't say you're sorry."

"But I love you."

"Then pick up the fucking dry cleaning."

"Crystal..."

"You don't know what love is, George. You think it's about possession and absolute loyalty. You never wanted a wife. You wanted a female reflection of yourself. But I'm not like you. I never was."

"Tell me. Tell me what to do."

There was no response, and he grabbed her shoulders, slumped her against the wall. Her mouth gaped open and her eyes were opalescent. Beautiful eyes. She'd always had such beautiful eyes. He realized that she would never speak again, but he knew what she would have wanted.

His hands shook as he tried to hold the gun backwards, thumb awkward on the trigger. He could see her side of it. She had never seen his. He was willing to give it all up. So they could be together. He heard a pounding on the door as he worked the barrel between his gritty teeth.

The Closet

It lived inside him, but he did not know its form. A vapor perhaps? He did not know whether it was big or small - or what part of his body was being occupied. He merely knew it was there. He heard the scraping sound on his spine. Sometimes it spoke. He did not understand the words, but he understood their intent.

He looked down at the knife in his hand. His vision focused and then blurred out. He blinked it back to clarity. The knife was long and thin. The sharpest he'd found in the kitchen. It dangled as he stared at his naked body in the mirror. He would find it.

God knows why the police showed up. Perhaps he had been yelling without realizing it. They found him, bleeding to death, surrounded by pieces of meat. The man was carved open, but he was smiling. A detective leaned in and the man slowly turned his head.

"Am I going to die?"

"Yes."

"Good. I couldn't find it, but it will die with me."

Matson watched as the man let himself die. He shook his head, swallowed the naseau that was rising within him. Then he heard it. Joe. He had never heard Joe sound scared. It turned his blood to ice. He was facing the open closet with his back to the dead man.

"Matson...Jesus...there's something here you need to see..."

The last story.

Tick.

Teeth on barrel. He laughed, spine cringing at the soft metal noise. No need to bite the damn thing, but his teeth didn't matter anymore and the steel chill faded quickly. He was tired. Tired of biting the bullet. Bullet, barrel...fuck it. He knew he wouldn't flinch and, even if he did...

He grabbed another piece of printer paper, took a swig from the bottle, and tried again. A few sentences and then it was just the same old bullshit. It was going to hurt, regardless. There would be questions, no matter what he wrote.

He pictured her in his mind and his muscles went rigid with hate. Part of him wanted to kill her, but he knew this would hurt her more. And she fucking deserved it. So what? So much talk. Fuck her. She had the nerve to pervert something he loved, churning out the words like styrofoam peanuts. There was no spice to the writing and people shoveled it in like fast food. And she bragged her little mottled smile...made fun of his friends who weren't "producing". Blind to the fact that when they did, it mattered...not like the shit she pawned off...soiled paper.

His parents would be destroyed. Fuck it. Fuck them. There had been so many paths diverging in all manner of colored woods, but they had picked the wrong one consistently. They built the foundation and he didn't feel much about it. Finishing it, that is.

Michael would be fucking destroyed, but Jesus Christ...how much had he fed that man? How many times had he been the life preserver. He knew he should return the favor...give him a chance to pay it back. Fuck it. He could pay him back with forgiveness.

He couldn't think what to say. Sorry? When you think of me, think good things? Know that I will be happier in whatever void awaits than I am here, on earth, you simple endoskeletal...

His right. It was his. The whole fucking thing. He owned it. He'd put down the tent pegs. He'd closed his eyes when quivering, damp lips led to hands, cold, in places he couldn't speak of. He'd fucking sucked that shit up, so they could take this. Team effort.

The layoffs and the fucking debt and all the goddamn bullshit financial crap that he didn't understand. Judged arbitrarily for things he could not control...ratty hair, old clothes, stench of poverty. Let them feast on it. Let it rise in their throats, acid burning the pink skin, sizzling burnt meat smell. It was all burnt meat. Feast, motherfuckers, feast.

He wasn't happy. That's what it came down to. The past, the girls who had left, the money that had evaporated seemingly overnight. The anger and the sadness. The memories that tried to surface no matter how hard he squashed them down. It was like a summertime child pushing a rubber ball under the limp surface of a blue, backyard pool. You can't keep that shit down. It rises up. Sometimes it explodes. Fuck it.

'I'm not happy'. He stared at the block printing on the sheet and knew it wasn't enough. But it would never be enough. His last act of generosity would be the gift of hatred. He would hate himself until the very last second. Until his finger closed on the cold metal. He would not try to make it OK. And that penance would have to serve. And their hatred would outweigh the loss.

He took another drink from the bottle. Upended it. Held it above his slack tongue while the last few drips fell. He looked at the paper and the gun on the table. Under the three words in the center of the page he wrote, 'It's not your fault'. He moaned a quiet plea and picked the gun back up. It was time to bite the barrel.