Title: Plus One in the Chamber
Summary: If he's anything at all, he's resourceful.
Details: 754 words; Short
Genre: Angst, Dark
Special Notes and Warnings: Very dark themes.
Plus One in the Chamber
It smells like old coffee. The pot's been left on. The remains left to sour and burn. To congeal into a thick black gel. Like tar, oily and toxic. It won't be removed until it's scraped with force.
But by then he'll be dead, and there'll be more than just coffee to scrape off of sturdy double-paned glass.
That's what he has planned. It's something he'd thought up on-the-go. Something permanent, but with a shortened shelf life. Like this motel room, with its stench of old coffee and stale cigarette smoke and coconut oil. Because if he's anything at all, he's resourceful.
Tony will do what he must.
Against the sliding glass door, his back is to reality. Alone in this economy room - a solitary sentinel of crumbling neurosis - he feels the walls edging inward. The TV's switched on, but reality is the parking lot, the yellow lines fading away under slush and rock salt. The cracks radiate outward. Separating huge swaths of concrete into great continental rifts. And between the hulking rusted lumps identified only by Maryland plates, he'll find the needles and slivers of glass. Missing pieces. He'll gather them up with lust. If he could, he'd jam them back into place. Let the rivulets of guilt and prideful shame wash away his mistakes.
Eyes turned toward the floor, it's a careful study of synthetic polymers, partially melted black. This unrest is a desert, and he's come to end it before the mirage of salvation becomes reality. He lets his weight rest on his haunches. Lets his hands cradle cold metal. Lets the barrel push against the soft juncture of Adam's apple and jaw. The flesh and sinew yields. He welcomes the gentle touch.
He's seen a man who's done it this way. Seen the forcible removal of half of a neck. That's what a last-minute flinch could do. A bullet gone awry an inch to the left. Leaving only shredded meat and a complete lack of motor skills. He's alive somewhere. Squirreled away, hush hush, kept viable only by pump and machine.
Tony is smarter than that. He knows of a better way.
He shifts, brushes the muzzle against his chapped lips. He's handling the lifeless piece of metal like never before. Intimate and close. He wants to feel the explosion, the powder burns. If only to bathe thereafter in serenity, an island set between sloppy chunks of projectile skull and brain matter. He wants it. Wants it so badly he's been praying to whatever God would allow it. Whoever would allow him this small and violent mercy.
The gun now seems to caress his face by its own volition. Contact as gentle as he imagines his mother's had been. Kind and forgiving, as it coddles him with the assurance of imminent relief. The glass is cold against his back. Winter has come fast and hard. Sucking away life and will. Double-panes do little to keep him protected.
The roughened pad of his thumb comes to rest on the trigger. He's good with his duty weapon. Full magazine plus one in the chamber. The slide in place. Hammer down. He knows that the trigger pull is ten pounds. He'll use both hands, both thumbs, and he'll squeeze hard. It's an awkward way to shoot. He'll try not to flinch.
There's been a pounding on the door, and soon it bursts forth. It swings inward before slamming against the door jam with enough force to crack the moldy plaster.
Tony shuts his eyes. No witnesses. He's wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a suit jacket.
"Boss, I found him!"
He positions the barrel one last time. Settles it in place, feels its hard weight against his bottom teeth.
"Tony. Tony, put it down."
He breathes, slow and even. Enjoys the last bits of oxygen he'll need before this journey.
"Don't do this."
It can only be Probie. Scared shitless and desperate, young and bright. Filled to the brim with good intentions. Always wants to save what's already gone.
Tony plays with the trigger pull. He knows by heart how much play it has, and he knows exactly how much pressure he'll need to exert. His hands tremble. From excitement. From fear - distant and cold.
"Please. Not in front of me."
It's a clever use of emotion. A trick he'd heard before.
Tony smiles even as his arms ache and his eyes water. He says, voice slurred by a mouth full of gun barrel, "Close your eyes, then, Probie."