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His Story
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His Story The spark of life that she seemed to bring with her was gone. Ever since she died, the house has felt empty. Hollow. Without purpose. Like a light with a broken filament. Useless. Like me. Her picture still sits on top of the TV. Mom says it makes her feel warm and brightens the room like a comforting fire. She’s wrong. It’s not a fire’s light in the room. It’s a stark, cold spotlight that removes the shadow and the contrast; that reveals how empty, flat, and lifeless this room, this house is. Like me. She was my sister. We were just over a year apart but that didn’t matter; we were like<b> twins. </font></b>We felt each other’s pain, and we shared each other’s joys. I knew the moment she died. It was three years ago, but I still remember waking from a dead sleep, feeling a crushing pain in my chest. I cried though I wasn’t exactly sure why. When the cop knocked on the door three hours later, it didn’t shock me. He sat at the table with mom, dad and me. He had a sad look on his face. He didn’t waste much time. He struck us with the news quickly. The same way the truck had struck her. His words had the same effect on us as the truck had on her. The physical trauma she experienced killed her. The trauma we were hit with was just as physical. The world was spinning. I couldn’t see, think, talk, breathe. The strength left my legs and I fell, crashing soundlessly to the floor. The cop tried to be compassionate, sympathetic. He was just pathetic. His fake sad eyes; his bullshit “I’m sorry.” He didn’t care. For him it was paperwork and overtime. I felt guilty for every breath my lungs took, for every pounding beat of my heart. I wanted her to take them. Wanted to give them to her. Wanted her to be here even if it meant that I was the one dead. Especially if it meant that I was the one dead. I didn’t want to feel this pain. And that made me feel guilty, too. Guilty because my pain wasn’t killing me. My pain wasn’t taking away my chance to see the sun tomorrow, to eat mom’s cooking or listen to dad’s boring old stories. But I didn’t want her to feel this loss, this pain either…the world just kept spinning. Three years. Tonight, a little past midnight it would be three years. I feel it exactly the same today as I did that night. It hasn’t stopped hurting. The feeling of missing her hasn’t faded like sunlight in the evening. The sun hasn’t set at all, and I can’t take the light anymore. It’s almost time. I’m going to shut off the light. Wrap myself in darkness and finally get some rest. The burn of the vodka feels right. It hurts, hurts like I imagine she hurt. I want to hurt, and I want the hurt to stop. Every drink burns and further numbs the pain. When the phone rings, I answer without thinking. It doesn’t matter anyway. Nothing matters at this point. I know what’s coming. It’s my cousin. She’s calling to see how I’m doing today. Mom and dad are away and I guess she’s the one stuck with checking on me. I want to be angry but she doesn’t deserve that. She doesn’t deserve to have me yell at her. She doesn’t deserve to have me just gone. “I’m finally gonna be ok, cuz. It’s hurt for a long time but not much longer now.” The phone feels smooth in my hand, against my face. Smooth like the stock of the rifle. Warmer than the steel barrel though. I lick the phone; I want to see if it tastes as metallic and as smoky like the gun barrel tasted. It doesn’t taste like anything. “I love you, cuz. Thanks for calling. I’m gonna say goodbye now. Goodbye so you can hear it. She never said goodbye, you know? At least you got that, right? “ Why can’t she just accept it. At least she’s prepared now. She’ll know what’s coming. It won’t hit her and smash her body, her brain, her heart. Not the same way at least. “Ok. I’m not gonna talk about it. The gun’s loaded, and I’m just about ready. I love you. All of you guys. Tell them, huh? Thanks, cuz. You’ll be ok.” As I hang up the phone, I think about how in the movies people slam down the phone. That’s so stupid. I’m not angry, I have no reason to slam the phone down. I’m finally kinda peaceful, just chilling now. I’m just gonna take some time to think about her. She was so awesome, she was so beautiful, the best sister, the best woman. Why did she have to go? Go? She didn’t go. She was taken. Stolen. Killed. And the fucking guy that took her didn’t even get charged. Didn’t get charged…nothing. She’s in heaven, I’m in hell and he didn’t even go to jail. That phony cop with his phony sad face, his phony sympathy. Fake fucking asshole. He’s supposed to keep people safe and punish people that hurt others. And he didn’t do a fucking thing. His face. His phony face with his phony smile. I can’t even see her picture that I’m holding now. All I see is him. The phone rings again. “I already said goo…who the fuck is this? Who? Fuck you, you fucking pig! You don’t know shit you don’t know me or what my life is like…who? What’s your fucking name? Cst. who? You FUCKING asshole!!! You didn't DO ANYTHING!!” I look out the window and see the police car sitting down the road. “You let him kill her and walk away. You. You should be dead. I swear, before I’m dead I’m shooting you in the head or the fucking balls because I know your bullet proof vest doesn’t cover those parts.” Now I understand why the phones get slammed down. I want the noise to run through the phone and break his eardrum. I want him to hurt before he dies. Her picture is looking up at me from the floor where I dropped it. She’s smiling up at me, and I know she agrees. I know she supports me. We were like<b> twins. </font></b>I know. “For you, sis. See you soon.” A final burn of vodka and I’m ready. I walk out to the road. There he is. I lift the gun and after the muzzle flash, drifting smoke blocks the world from my view.  |
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Not sure if I got this straight, did the author kill the policeman who told the family that the sister had died? Why him and not the person who smashed into the sister? Is this story about suicide or perhaps mental illness?
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Not sure if I got this straight, did the author kill the policeman who told the family that the sister had died? Why him and not the person who smashed into the sister? Is this story about suicide or perhaps mental illness? Thanks for your questions. I'll have to re-examine this and maybe change things so it answers them. To directly answer you questions: -the guy in the story was suffering from a serious depression. He shot at the cop because he never ever met the driver; the cop had delivered the news and in this case the messenger embodied everything negative about the situation. He is doing all right now, his family stayed pretty tight and he eventually found a healthy way to deal with his sister's death. -the cop didn't die. Wasn't hit at all, in fact, but getting shot at fucked with his head enough that this situation (and a few others) led to him (eventually) getting divorced, retiring early, and struggling for a long time to figure out who he was/is. He's doing fine now too. Back in school and happier than ever.
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Unfortunately, it wasn't fiction. I'll post the other side of the story right away. I had to make the shooter a sympathetic character for my own sake. His thoughts are made up but the conversations are close enough to what actually happened...serendipity made me the guy that responded to both situations.
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There are no appropriate words. This is very powerful. Thank you. Check out my profile or and become a "watcher" of my blog FMAOPLS,to learn more about me, and for intelligent, lively, smartassy and fun discussion, with a little irreverence thrown in. "Like" or comment on my photos, and I promise I'll add more. Thanks.
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This is extremely intense. It sounds too much like you've experienced it yourself, or that you've had someone tell you what it felt like. When my sister delivered her 3rd child, she was close to dying from complications. For the next 9 months, we didn't know whether she would live or die. Much later, when my brother and I were talking about it, i told him how intense the feelings of guilt were - that somehow, it was wrong that she should've been the one dying, that it was supposed to be me and not her.... and all this, inspite of the fact that we were never that close growing up. And yet, faced with death, both my brother and I were willing to take her place if only she'd stop dying and live. I had my two kids at that point, so it was really, really stupid of me to forget my own children and die instead of my sister... but ... if she had died...??? yup... i'd have felt guilty for every breath I took beyond that day. --Author Unknown
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This is extremely intense. It sounds too much like you've experienced it yourself, or that you've had someone tell you what it felt like. When my sister delivered her 3rd child, she was close to dying from complications. For the next 9 months, we didn't know whether she would live or die. Much later, when my brother and I were talking about it, i told him how intense the feelings of guilt were - that somehow, it was wrong that she should've been the one dying, that it was supposed to be me and not her.... and all this, inspite of the fact that we were never that close growing up. And yet, faced with death, both my brother and I were willing to take her place if only she'd stop dying and live. I had my two kids at that point, so it was really, really stupid of me to forget my own children and die instead of my sister... but ... if she had died...??? yup... i'd have felt guilty for every breath I took beyond that day.
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I was the one he was aiming at. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out his side I things. I can't say that this is exactly what he was feeling, but it makes sense in my mind and helps me find peace with the situation.  --Author Unknown
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I knew you were the cop... i figured it out from your reply to Mike above..
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But I really like the fact that you identified with the guy in the story. I think most people are against people who commit acts contrary to societal norms (for good reason) and the fact that I was able to write something that allowed someone to empathize with the shooter is very cool.  --Author Unknown
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