Oh hey another story to kill everyone inside! And yet another story sparked from ItsLizabeth's story because I can't think of any ideas on my own whoops. (pls dont kill me) It's also fairly related to a story with the same prompt - only the ending though, with my own twist. So uh yeah. Read it and enjoy - I mean weep.
The first thing he saw was a ham costume covered in blood, held by a sorrowful sheriff. The first thing his did was throw the radio across the room. The radio was playing over the screams of two children coming from the woods. The radio was still playing when it slammed into the wall before slowly dying off.
Heck Tate was still in the doorway holding Scout's ham costume, which was now covered in blood. Her blood. Heck was speaking, but Atticus wasn't listening. He was too occupied with his thoughts. They're dead. They're never coming back. And it was his fault.
Why the hell hadn't he gone with him? He just had to put his own selfish needs of rest before his kids didn't he? Damn it all, he sat in his chair listening to music and a ranting sister, while it was a neighbor listening to to cries of two children, crying for help. Crying for mercy. Crying for a father who was never to come.
And now said father was listening to Heck Tate speaking of Ewell in custody. And his sister's muffled sobs. Calpurnia was silent. Most likely in shock of it all. As Atticus was, who was now in a ball against the wall, crying for help. Crying for mercy. Crying for two kids who were never to come.
...
Atticus was no longer certain what day it was, yet he knew how many days it had been since the funeral. Twelve days, ten hours, thirty-three minutes. He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep, yet he couldn't leave his bed. He hadn't the slightest idea of when the last time he had bathed was.
Atticus lied awake in his bed, the only light in the room was the small lamp on his night stand. What time was it? He reached a hand to the night stand and lazily swiped off his watch. However when he opened it, he paid no attention to the time. Instead he gazed at the inscription next to it with sad tired eyes; To Atticus, my beloved husband.
He had let her down. He promised his Jean he wasn't gonna let anything happen to her children. He couldn't even look at her picture, which was face down. How could he? His babies were with her now because of his ignorance. Jean would never forgive him now.
He attempted to open his mouth and say how sorry he was for the millionth time but nothing came out. Not even a sob. He had let all of his sobs out. He's surprised he didn't flood the house with his tears.
Still clutching the watch he found himself slumping to the kitchen, pouring a drink. He hadn't touched whiskey in years, now it was all he wanted. It was the only thing that could temporarily make him forget. He gulped it down, ignoring the burning in his throat, and poured himself another. Then another.
Next thing he did was drag himself as best as he could to Scout's old bedroom, untouched since her absence. He could barely make it out even with the light on - everything was blurry, moving. He ended up tripping over something and fell hard on the floor. He reached out to feel what he tripped over, and his hands felt denim. Her overalls. Which he clutched before crawling to her bed, slithering into it. He stared at the overalls and brought them to his nose. They still smelt like her.
He held them for a few minutes more before everything went black.
He didn't know what brought him to it, but for the first time in days, he took a shower. And he dressed in his regular work clothes. When he was usually greeted with bickering kids and Calpurnia when he walked into the kitchen, today - and everyday from now on - he was greeted with silence. Their maid was gone, no longer needed. He made tea that he didn't drink. Instead, he left the untouched mug on the table to go deep into his closet. Behind his clothes, a box of Jean's old jewelry - which included the pearl necklace and ring originally destined to belong to Scout - old baby clothes, was his shotgun. He hadn't touched the weapon in thirty years, which was now collecting dust. He took it out of the case and made his way to the back door. He decided to shoot a bluejay or robin or two, for some reason thinking it would help.
When he reached Deer's Pasture, he looked around for a minute. The first thing he saw was a near middle aged man holding hands with a young woman. He saw a middle aged man place his hands on his wife's swollen stomach. He saw a toddler, running around his parents in a continuous loop. He saw two children playing in the water. The first thing he heard were the chirps and whistles of birds before fireing the gun in different directions one, two, three times.
The last thing he saw was yet another death of his doing: a mockingbird in the grass, a bullet in his belly.
The last thing he heard was a gunshot.