A few things flashed through Artie's mind as his fingers sat in anticipation on the gun's trigger, pressing the weapon to his temple.
The weekly dinners kept them sane. They kept them believing that they were still in love as they sat on seperate sides of the table, picking at whatever meal Artie had attempted to cook for them. The girl across from him stabbed at the steak that was cooked way too long, making a face and looking over at him.
"Can't you do anything right?" She mutters, angry from the fight they had a few hours before the dinner. They never ate together, both of them seated at separate parts of the apartment. It was probably better that way, for the dinners they did eat together ended up with the only sound being the buzzing of the broken light that hung above them. Occasionally a fork would scrape across the cheap plates that Artie picked up from a garage sale as a last resort. They could barely afford the meal they had now, usually ending up eating a microwave dinner or two each night. The call center didn't pay enough for them to afford the apartment they had. Artie and this girl he barely knew anymore. The girl that was just as bad off as him. That girl with bouncy blonde hair and a spirit that didn't fit in a cheap-ass house in the dirtiest part of the city. That girl he knew he would never have a successful future with. The girl that just tagged along with him because she didn't have anywhere else to go. A high school sweetheart, he guessed.
He couldn't call her a sweetheart when they weren't in love anymore.
He wasn't sure if they were even in love in the first place. Brittany was just a girl to keep around that would deal with him drinking himself away from thinking after he couldn't handle his shitty job and overall shitty life. She half-stuck by him, even the nights when he would sit alone in the kitchen, staring across the way at the box filled with miscellaneous things from high school. She stopped herself from moving out that night she was sitting on the edge of their bed, eyeing her suitcase and thinking about how much easier her life would be if she didn't stay with Artie.
One day while Artie was at work, as he rolled his eyes and took another call from a misunderstood customer, as he brightened his voice to sound like he was enthused, as he tapped his fingers on the desk and scribbled doodles on a pad of paper, Brittany decided to look in that box he kept.
Brittany titled it, "the Tina box," being filled to the top with pictures and notes and even her old lacy, fishnet gloves. Her heart sunk, the only thing regarding her in the box being a tube of Lip Smackers that probably wouldn't open if she tried.
The ceiling let her know that a little kid was reluctantly taking a bath upstairs.
A smaller box sat next to the Tina box. Brittany's fingers wiped the dust off the top, flipping the flimsy cardboard up so she could peer inside. There was a piece of fabric under that, stained and covered in dirty fingerprints. She put her fingertips over the prints on it, realizing it was from lifting it up so many times. Impulsively, Brittany lifted it away.
She almost didn't want to know what was inside.
It was probably better if she didn't.
A weapon stared up at her. A gun that hadn't been used before, loaded with a new bullet that would be used someday. The breath caught in her throat, not even noticing the bottle of alcohol (which she saw every day as Artie swerved to the kitchen, pouring himself a new glass) and the note under it.
She stumbled over the rug as she backed up, quickly grabbing a pen and an envelope containing a bill that they hadn't even looked at yet, scrawling a few words on the back.
Sorry. I can't stay here. Bye.
The kid splashed angrily in the bath.
Brittany threw the clothes she kept tucked away in two drawers under Artie's in that ugly pink suitcase, pulling it out to the bathroom to pack away the rest of her things.
Artie would never lay a finger on her, let alone yell too loud, even when he was drunk, but Brittany couldn't help but think he was plotting to kill her. It was a stupid idea, but a gun sitting right out in the open sat stationary in her mind, not even considering the real purpose of the weapon. A few minutes later, the suitcase was messily zipped up and she was standing in the door, looking back at the apartment they had. Her note was laying on the kitchen table on Artie's spot where he would have sat if she stuck around for their weekly dinner that night.
Later that night, her fingers pressed the cold buttons on her old cell phone, spelling out a message to send to a high school friend.
Tina... Do you remember Artie?
Artie, however, didn't know about this as he picked up the note, reading each letter carefully before his reflexes kicked in. His fingers wrapped around his wheels, finding enough energy to propel himself to the cabinet in the kitchen, cracking open a new bottle that he had been saving for when this day came.