Even my bones, every muscle, knows I don’t deserve to hold her, to embrace her, to call hermom.
I drag the tip of the handgun across my temple and trap my breath behind my teeth.
My chest stops moving, the air I’m holding burns my lungs, and I’m no longer crying, even as tears involuntarily drip from my eyes.
I knew what I needed to do now.
I feel the capillaries in my eyes pop and I don’t blink, shakily bringing the barrel to my open mouth.
My teeth chatter on the alloyed steel and more beaded tears make their way down my face as I tighten my fist around the handgun.
I couldn’t save my sister.
I’m a useless brother.
A son that killed his mother.
Any other thoughts are evanescent.
I whisper for forgiveness, begging with my whole fucking heart, and when there’s nothing left of me, my trembling finger finds the trigger, and I count down from three, never taking my eyes from my mother.
I don’t know what I expected to feel, but it wasn’t this.
The barrel is still in my mouth, and my teeth aren’t chattering now, they’re clenched around the steel.
I can feel my pulse beating through the nerves in my gums, coiling with the striations beneath.
I think I hear the front door opening.
I think I hear the dragging of feet.
I think I hear a voice.
I think I’m crying.
I think I might bealive.
I think I choked.
Skinner’s voice is like a tug, pulling me back.
“Chase.”
It’s low, wary, with a rhythm of uncertainty.
And I don’t reply, even though I want to.
My head remains pushed to the wall, barrel in my mouth, finger turbulent at the trigger.
I think Skinner’s in the room now. I think his hand is on my shoulder. I think he might have just taken the gun out of my mouth. I think he’s taking a seat beside me.
I’m staring in front of me, at my mother, dead on the floor, though beside me I see Skinner draw his knees up, dangling his wrists.
He jerks his chin at my father.
“Killing another man takes stones…” He pauses and waits, sucks down a breath. “I’ve seen a lot of men cower at the face of being the leading hand to death. But wanting to kill yourself, even getting as far as putting a smoking gun in your mouth…” He shakes his head, dips it between his shoulders. “That takes another fucking set entirely.”
I let the stalk of my neck hang as I turn a glance on him. There’s blood on his fingers. I think it could be my mother’s. The pool of her sad life reaches and stretches for us, touching at the edges of my shoes.
