(Chapter 12: Reliving the Past)
Reaching the driveway to his house, Valentine Christy reached above his head and activated the garage door opener. The big massive door retreated into the ceiling, and taking the opportunity, Mr. Christy pulled his aging Chevy into the garage, wedged firmly between his boat on the left and the workbenches on his right. He got out of the vehicle, stretching his back and exhaling deeply. So, you're going to die. Do they write pamphlets to comfort people who are being stalked by the angel of death? Probably not, no one would know what to write about. Too many ways to die, the only way out living a life of fear. Fun…
Walking from his car, he looked back at the garage, its open door showing the bounty within. He had fish mounted on one wall, a classic propane barbeque, an impressive collection of tools, power and otherwise, and one hell of a fishing boat. Then came the more logical side of his mind, seeing threats in every item. Fish hooks were rusty, tetanus, a bit too painful. Tools could fall, cut, slice, kill. Cans of gas near the boat, also a threat. With the garage door opener in hand, he shut it. With the door halfway down and quickly descending, he walked away. Lots of good memories in there Val, memories that should probably best be forgotten.
Tossing the control into the air, he quickly palmed it and pocketed it.
-----------
As the door closed, the over-packed contents of the room rattled and shifted as they always tended to do. Valentine Christy had never been the best about setting things up safely in his garage, that had always been his wife's job. Since her death, it became filled more and more with hunting and fishing gear, the one thing besides teaching he called a passion. One trash can particularly close to the door shifted its position on the floor, going too close to the garage door and its moving support springs. As one spring moved up, helping the garage door close, it caught on the handle of the plastic trashcan, tipping it over onto its side. Contents spilled out, hedgeclippers hitting the floor and getting caught in one of the springs. Rakes spilled every which way. One shovel, a particularly aged one, caked thick with rust and dirt, fell hard, clattering across the floor and traveling along the edge of the wall. With the force of the fall, it kept moving, stopping only with its impact with the barbeque that Mr. Christy rolled out on weekends. The shovels impact produced no major damage, one or two inches off and it would have punctured the tank, destroying the garage. Instead, it harmlessly collided with the feed hose to the propane tank, cutting a large hole in the piece of plastic. When the shovel came to a rest, it collided with the handle on the tank, rotating it very slightly. The small rotation was enough to start releasing the heavy gas into the room, and with the garage as poorly ventilated as it was, the gas began to fill the lower portion of the room.
-----------
He had visited Mike at around noon, gotten home at one, and looking at his watch (and the dark sky for that matter) Mr. Christy knew it to be seven. Standing up from his big easy chair in the rec room, he smashed his head into the deer head that he had located above it.
"Damn it!" he yelled.
Rubbing his forehead, he stepped out of the way and looked up at the stuffed and mounted animals head. It was truly marvelous, the biggest horns Val had known since he had started hunting, and the satisfaction that he had knowing that he had killed the creature. Pity, it was a thing of beauty, but so goes the hunt.
He looked over to the end-table beside the easy chair. His bottle of whiskey was almost empty. There was a double-barreled shotgun on the floor. Getting his bearings finally, Mr. Christy put the picture together. Bottle of whiskey, that would explain the headache. Oh yeah, the shotgun wouldn't work so you took to the bottle of whiskey.
"The one time you want to kill yourself is the one time death won't let you die. How's that for irony," Mr. Christy mused to himself, laughing drunkenly and rubbing his head. It hurt like hell.
He grabbed the bottle of whiskey again, taking another swig from the bottle and getting pleasantly buzzed. He looked at the picture on his wall, situated next to the window that looked out onto the garage. His old unit was there, the eight of them sitting in the chopper with broad smiles, all showing off their tattoos. Pulling up his right shirt sleeve, Mr. Christy looked at the tattoo, faded and stretched with time and age.
"You're an old man Valentine," he said to himself, trying desperately to stand up and look at the picture at the same time, "you shouldn't be mixed up in all this shit. And you guys, you all died when I lived, why? What'd I do to deserve this? I lost everyone who ever meant anything to me, and why am I forced to stay and remember?"
The picture didn't answer, just eight smiling faces in a helicopter, showing off faded tattoos of an eagle.
"Yeah, I thought so," he said into the picture, "you guys never say anything because you're all dead. Is a quick death so hard to ask for? You don't let me kill me, so why can't you just kill me and get it over with?"
Standing there, Mr. Christy realized how stupid he looked, yelling at a picture. Still, he was drunk, frightened and seriously enraged. With the bottle in hand, he threw it against the wall, glass and whiskey exploding in every direction. He kicked over the end table near his easy chair, turned over another coffee table, sending sporting, hunting and nudie magazines all over the floor. Standing near the window and breathing hard, he felt something hard and square in his pocket. The garage door opener. The key that represented what he could never open if he wished to remain alive. In a fit of rage, he threw it through the window, smashing the glass and landing hard on the ground outside.
As he stood in the room, Valentine looked at the mess he had created. He laughed, sobering up slightly. Gawd, you old fool, you did it this time. You booze you lose. Just sit back, breathe, and relax. So long as you don't take any chances, don't make any bad moves, you can live forever. As he looked around the room, laughing slightly, he looked to a lamp that burned brightly in the corner of the room. A darkness passed over it, seemingly a shadow in a bright room. It almost carried the shape of a human head, a skull to be more precise. As he realized what he saw, his smile turned to a grimace as he knew the time had come.
-----------
Since Mr. Christy had fallen asleep, the tank of propane had emptied entirely into the garage, filling the room with a heavy and dangerous gas. It wafted around his car, his boat, the hedgeclippers wedged in the spring of the garage door, his boxes of stored Playboy magazines dating back to the war, and the gasoline cans he kept for his boat, all of which happened to be full. Always be prepared, one of Mr. Christy's personal mottos.
As the garage door opener settled on the grass outside, it turned over on one clump and fell lightly on the 'OPEN' button. The minor depression was enough to get the button in and set the garage door in motion. The garage door, an unsophisticated piece of machinery, obliged to the command of the remote and immediately began its slow ascent to the ceiling. The hedgeclippers strained to protest on the spring, and with a harsh screech of metal on metal, set out a long stream of sparks. Almost instantly, the propane was ignited, the jet of flame traveling throughout the garage and hitting the boat's gasoline cans.
-----------
Mr. Christy could only stand by in shock as the garage exploded with a loud thump. The shockwave and fireball flew towards the house, blasting out the windows and setting the exterior walls aflame. Standing in his rec room, he barely had time to react. He saw fire, he could hear the blast, and he was instantly flung through the air. He should have hit the wall hard, bounced off and hit the floor with only a headache. However, the angle of the blast threw Valentine Christy through the air and right into the mounted deer head he had placed on the wall, its horns impaling him through the neck, chest, stomach and groin. After a few moments of intense bleeding and twitching, Mr. Christy's body gave up living and simply died.
Reaching the driveway to his house, Valentine Christy reached above his head and activated the garage door opener. The big massive door retreated into the ceiling, and taking the opportunity, Mr. Christy pulled his aging Chevy into the garage, wedged firmly between his boat on the left and the workbenches on his right. He got out of the vehicle, stretching his back and exhaling deeply. So, you're going to die. Do they write pamphlets to comfort people who are being stalked by the angel of death? Probably not, no one would know what to write about. Too many ways to die, the only way out living a life of fear. Fun…
Walking from his car, he looked back at the garage, its open door showing the bounty within. He had fish mounted on one wall, a classic propane barbeque, an impressive collection of tools, power and otherwise, and one hell of a fishing boat. Then came the more logical side of his mind, seeing threats in every item. Fish hooks were rusty, tetanus, a bit too painful. Tools could fall, cut, slice, kill. Cans of gas near the boat, also a threat. With the garage door opener in hand, he shut it. With the door halfway down and quickly descending, he walked away. Lots of good memories in there Val, memories that should probably best be forgotten.
Tossing the control into the air, he quickly palmed it and pocketed it.
-----------
As the door closed, the over-packed contents of the room rattled and shifted as they always tended to do. Valentine Christy had never been the best about setting things up safely in his garage, that had always been his wife's job. Since her death, it became filled more and more with hunting and fishing gear, the one thing besides teaching he called a passion. One trash can particularly close to the door shifted its position on the floor, going too close to the garage door and its moving support springs. As one spring moved up, helping the garage door close, it caught on the handle of the plastic trashcan, tipping it over onto its side. Contents spilled out, hedgeclippers hitting the floor and getting caught in one of the springs. Rakes spilled every which way. One shovel, a particularly aged one, caked thick with rust and dirt, fell hard, clattering across the floor and traveling along the edge of the wall. With the force of the fall, it kept moving, stopping only with its impact with the barbeque that Mr. Christy rolled out on weekends. The shovels impact produced no major damage, one or two inches off and it would have punctured the tank, destroying the garage. Instead, it harmlessly collided with the feed hose to the propane tank, cutting a large hole in the piece of plastic. When the shovel came to a rest, it collided with the handle on the tank, rotating it very slightly. The small rotation was enough to start releasing the heavy gas into the room, and with the garage as poorly ventilated as it was, the gas began to fill the lower portion of the room.
-----------
He had visited Mike at around noon, gotten home at one, and looking at his watch (and the dark sky for that matter) Mr. Christy knew it to be seven. Standing up from his big easy chair in the rec room, he smashed his head into the deer head that he had located above it.
"Damn it!" he yelled.
Rubbing his forehead, he stepped out of the way and looked up at the stuffed and mounted animals head. It was truly marvelous, the biggest horns Val had known since he had started hunting, and the satisfaction that he had knowing that he had killed the creature. Pity, it was a thing of beauty, but so goes the hunt.
He looked over to the end-table beside the easy chair. His bottle of whiskey was almost empty. There was a double-barreled shotgun on the floor. Getting his bearings finally, Mr. Christy put the picture together. Bottle of whiskey, that would explain the headache. Oh yeah, the shotgun wouldn't work so you took to the bottle of whiskey.
"The one time you want to kill yourself is the one time death won't let you die. How's that for irony," Mr. Christy mused to himself, laughing drunkenly and rubbing his head. It hurt like hell.
He grabbed the bottle of whiskey again, taking another swig from the bottle and getting pleasantly buzzed. He looked at the picture on his wall, situated next to the window that looked out onto the garage. His old unit was there, the eight of them sitting in the chopper with broad smiles, all showing off their tattoos. Pulling up his right shirt sleeve, Mr. Christy looked at the tattoo, faded and stretched with time and age.
"You're an old man Valentine," he said to himself, trying desperately to stand up and look at the picture at the same time, "you shouldn't be mixed up in all this shit. And you guys, you all died when I lived, why? What'd I do to deserve this? I lost everyone who ever meant anything to me, and why am I forced to stay and remember?"
The picture didn't answer, just eight smiling faces in a helicopter, showing off faded tattoos of an eagle.
"Yeah, I thought so," he said into the picture, "you guys never say anything because you're all dead. Is a quick death so hard to ask for? You don't let me kill me, so why can't you just kill me and get it over with?"
Standing there, Mr. Christy realized how stupid he looked, yelling at a picture. Still, he was drunk, frightened and seriously enraged. With the bottle in hand, he threw it against the wall, glass and whiskey exploding in every direction. He kicked over the end table near his easy chair, turned over another coffee table, sending sporting, hunting and nudie magazines all over the floor. Standing near the window and breathing hard, he felt something hard and square in his pocket. The garage door opener. The key that represented what he could never open if he wished to remain alive. In a fit of rage, he threw it through the window, smashing the glass and landing hard on the ground outside.
As he stood in the room, Valentine looked at the mess he had created. He laughed, sobering up slightly. Gawd, you old fool, you did it this time. You booze you lose. Just sit back, breathe, and relax. So long as you don't take any chances, don't make any bad moves, you can live forever. As he looked around the room, laughing slightly, he looked to a lamp that burned brightly in the corner of the room. A darkness passed over it, seemingly a shadow in a bright room. It almost carried the shape of a human head, a skull to be more precise. As he realized what he saw, his smile turned to a grimace as he knew the time had come.
-----------
Since Mr. Christy had fallen asleep, the tank of propane had emptied entirely into the garage, filling the room with a heavy and dangerous gas. It wafted around his car, his boat, the hedgeclippers wedged in the spring of the garage door, his boxes of stored Playboy magazines dating back to the war, and the gasoline cans he kept for his boat, all of which happened to be full. Always be prepared, one of Mr. Christy's personal mottos.
As the garage door opener settled on the grass outside, it turned over on one clump and fell lightly on the 'OPEN' button. The minor depression was enough to get the button in and set the garage door in motion. The garage door, an unsophisticated piece of machinery, obliged to the command of the remote and immediately began its slow ascent to the ceiling. The hedgeclippers strained to protest on the spring, and with a harsh screech of metal on metal, set out a long stream of sparks. Almost instantly, the propane was ignited, the jet of flame traveling throughout the garage and hitting the boat's gasoline cans.
-----------
Mr. Christy could only stand by in shock as the garage exploded with a loud thump. The shockwave and fireball flew towards the house, blasting out the windows and setting the exterior walls aflame. Standing in his rec room, he barely had time to react. He saw fire, he could hear the blast, and he was instantly flung through the air. He should have hit the wall hard, bounced off and hit the floor with only a headache. However, the angle of the blast threw Valentine Christy through the air and right into the mounted deer head he had placed on the wall, its horns impaling him through the neck, chest, stomach and groin. After a few moments of intense bleeding and twitching, Mr. Christy's body gave up living and simply died.