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Jun. 24th, 2003 11:52 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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ds_flashfictionI'd just come up with this for another purpose entirely, but it fits the challenge pretty nicely and it's been ages since I posted anything... 303 words.
He was nineteen. Fighting with his girl, fighting with his dad. Flunking out of school. Seemed like the end of the world.
He knew a guy who knew a guy. Getting the gun was easy. He took it back to his dingy studio apartment, the one that wasn’t good enough for his girl or his dad, and he loaded it and set it down on the floor next to his mattress.
For three weeks, he stared at it. Picked it up sometimes. Pointed it at himself sometimes. Thought about his girl, crying, thought about his dad, dressed in black.
But the fact was, he was too tired to pull the trigger, so he never got around to that. He just laid in bed, smoking and staring at the gun.
At the end of three weeks, his mum came by. He hadn’t locked the door, and he didn’t get up fast enough, and the place was filthy, he was filthy, and there was the gun.
She cried. She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t let him hug her, just stood there sobbing, praying when she could get any words out at all. He cried too, promised her he hadn’t meant it, promised her he’d be better now, promised her anything that crossed his mind as the words came tumbling out of him. She cleaned his apartment while he pushed himself through a shower, but she didn't touch the gun.
After that, she came back every day, to clean or cook or do his laundry. He put the gun away, started looking for a job, and she didn’t cry again, didn’t speak of it, but there she was, every day. She never told his dad, and he never told his girl.
He’s thirty-eight now, but his mum still comes over every day, to iron his shirts.
He was nineteen. Fighting with his girl, fighting with his dad. Flunking out of school. Seemed like the end of the world.
He knew a guy who knew a guy. Getting the gun was easy. He took it back to his dingy studio apartment, the one that wasn’t good enough for his girl or his dad, and he loaded it and set it down on the floor next to his mattress.
For three weeks, he stared at it. Picked it up sometimes. Pointed it at himself sometimes. Thought about his girl, crying, thought about his dad, dressed in black.
But the fact was, he was too tired to pull the trigger, so he never got around to that. He just laid in bed, smoking and staring at the gun.
At the end of three weeks, his mum came by. He hadn’t locked the door, and he didn’t get up fast enough, and the place was filthy, he was filthy, and there was the gun.
She cried. She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t let him hug her, just stood there sobbing, praying when she could get any words out at all. He cried too, promised her he hadn’t meant it, promised her he’d be better now, promised her anything that crossed his mind as the words came tumbling out of him. She cleaned his apartment while he pushed himself through a shower, but she didn't touch the gun.
After that, she came back every day, to clean or cook or do his laundry. He put the gun away, started looking for a job, and she didn’t cry again, didn’t speak of it, but there she was, every day. She never told his dad, and he never told his girl.
He’s thirty-eight now, but his mum still comes over every day, to iron his shirts.
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Date: 2003-06-24 10:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-06-25 03:48 pm (UTC)