Arthur smokes his cigarette calmly as he drives (always driving. And to nowhere. Or somewhere, perhaps, subconsciously.) "How did you end up here, boy?"
Alfred doesn't enjoy the diminutive but indulges him anyway. "The last thing I remember is driving my truck into something, it was dark, but I think it was a lamp post or a tree. Kind of lame. I know it wasn't my fault and I remember someone heading towards me and then barely stopping to see if I was okay, but this shit is coming back to me in bits and pieces.
"Once I kicked the bucket I saw my face on the steering wheel like an out of body experience and the more I think about it the more it scares the shit out of me, you know? Still kind of fuzzy, but," Alfred swipes his tongue across his teeth and turns his head to look at Arthur. "You?"
"Shot myself in the head." And if Alfred looks hard enough he can make out a small circular patch of hair that's a little darker and a little shorter than the rest that he hadn't paid much attention to.
Now it clicks.
"Left a awful mark. Not as bad as the wall though."
Alfred laughs. It's explained so nonchalantly and he wonders if it's a defense mechanism of sorts—a way to combat sadness or if Arthur actually doesn't give a shit.
He settles on the latter simply because it's Arthur. "Can I ask why?"
Arthur flicks the cigarette out the window. "I wanted to be the one to determine my own death. I don't enjoy following orders, I give them."
"Only you." Alfred shakes his head and leans his seat back as far as the broken mechanism will take him. For a moment he thinks Arthur might be lying to him, having an underlying reason for his suicide, something darker and more painful, but he doesn't press. The older man hasn't given him reason not to trust him, as bitchy as he can be.
Conversation dwindles after, a calm quietness. Music from the radio is still in the background, but as Alfred begins to feel the onset of something like sleep, he hears Arthur turn it down.
Sometimes the old man can be alright.