Love and a .38

Love and a .38

   

  by

  Len du Randt

  Copyright © 2012 by Len du Randt

  SmashWords Edition.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Love and a .38 is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  The entire barrel of the snub-nosed .38 Special fits snugly into my mouth and I instinctively lick the cold metal as my teeth clack shut around it. This was supposed to be easy, I remind myself. But it’s not. Thinking about killing yourself turns out to be a great deal easier than actually doing it. All kinds of thoughts creep into your mind; doubts about what would happen if something had to go wrong. I picture myself in a wheelchair fifteen years from now; unable to do anything but let my vegetated body be pushed around by well-meaning family and friends.

   

  I shudder at the thought.

   

  Some say that you have to do it at a 30-degree angle. Other ‘experts’ suggest placing a coin in your water-filled mouth. ‘The compression,’ they say in a helpful tone-of-voice, ‘will ensure that the back of your head explodes; leaving no margin for error.’

   

  I’m sure they mean well.

   

  A while ago, I had a friend whose dad died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. He merely pressed the gun against his temple and let ‘er rip. Seems effective enough. Then again, he used a .44 Magnum with hollow points. The .38 Special that had been locked away in my father’s safe only houses normal rounds. I doubt the outcome would be quite the same, so for now a ‘Surely Temple’ is out of the question.

   

  I remove the gun from my mouth and lay it flat in the palm of my hand. It weighs heavier than it looks, although not as heavy as the decision to go through with it. When you’re in school and your girlfriend tells you that she’s eight weeks pregnant, it’s hard to know what reaction she might be looking for. Is she probing for a smile followed by warm words of comfort? Perhaps she’s hoping for a glimmer of fear that reflects the fear she feels in her own gut? How should one react when his entire world crumbles before his very eyes?

   

  For a few days after she broke the news I avoided her completely. While teachers taught in distant mumbles, I scribbled furiously; working through all possible options available to me. At seventeen, your life hasn’t yet begun. When your girlfriend tells you she’s pregnant, all your hopes and dreams for a bright future shatter into a million pieces. Fragments of your life-to-be occupy your thoughts; images of sitting at home with an old-before-her-age wife with curlers in her hair and a cigarette dangling from her lower lip etch themselves into your mind. Your friends are out partying, getting drunk and laid while you are up to your elbows in baby poo. Just swell.

   

  I scribbled and scribbled, but every answer pointed in the same direction; every solution with the same conclusion: suicide. I scribbled some more, but at the end, my options ran as dry as the ink in the pen that I had scribbled all my notes with. There was no getting around it. I now knew what had to be done. The only question that remained was how to do it.

   

  I considered taking a plunge from the roof of the Trent Towers some thirty six floors up. The city below looked like a miniature play-town, alive with little moving props and pieces that gave it that realistic feel. I could soar down there like Superman; faster than a speeding bullet by the time my body smashed into the miniature ’82 Ford Cortina thirty six storeys below. I was still staring at the miniature buildings in the distance when a sudden gust of wind made me lose my balance, and had I not managed to grab onto the railing on time, I would have been dead less than ten seconds later. It’s funny how one clings to life even on the verge of trying to get rid of it. They say that it’s only after it is too late—at the point of no return—that one realizes death is not the answer. I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

   

  After the rooftop incident I dreamed up other ways of doing it. There was the classic slash-your-wrists option: Remember kids, it’s down the road; not across the street. Too melodramatic for my liking, thank you. Then there was the option of overdosing on sleeping pills while lying in a tub of warm water. It would be a nice casual slumber and you wouldn’t even notice as you slipped under. Or would you? I just couldn’t take a chance on something like that. Drowning is not much fun if you’re actually aware of it; water filling your lungs with each fish-like gulp of breath you take. Only, it wouldn’t be air that you’d be breathing. And there would be nothing that you could do about it as life slowly and painfully seeped away; the sleeping pills would make sure of that.

   

  Jumping in front of an oncoming bus? Too painful to even think about, let alone go through with it. Toaster in the bath? Too 1950’s. Hang myself? Too depressing. No. It would have to be the gun. Quick and simple. If executed properly, I should be dead even before the gun hits the floor. I can imagine a split second of intense searing pain before everything goes black and numb and I can’t think, feel, or care any longer. Perhaps—if there’s an afterlife—I would look down at my lifeless body with a certain sense of amusement as a crimson stain surrounds my head like a halo in one of those renaissance paintings. The Sleeping Saint, I would call this particular work of art.

   

  I wonder if the room would spin as my spirit dislodges itself from my body. I wonder if I would have time to say goodbye to this pathetic world before I depart to the next. I wonder if I should leave a note; a letter of sorts to explain to those I leave behind why I’ve decided to do this. I guess that they’ll figure it out sooner or later. Perhaps when they find my notes and Monique begins to show. Perhaps then they’ll be able to piece it together. For all I know Monique will tell my parents at the funeral. I don’t think that I’d stick around for that though. There’s nothing that I can say on a simple note that will make them understand the pressure; the enormous strain that I have on my shoulders. Everyone is a self-proclaimed philosophical guru; everyone’s problems are greater than yours.

   

  With more effort than I thought it would take, I pull back the hammer and it locks into place with a soft click. I have one shot; one chance to make it count. Failing at suicide is failing at failing. Kids will mock you as concerned parents and teachers try to answer your so-called ‘cry for help.’

   

  My life shattered with two simple words. I had so many goals for my future, so many hopes and dreams; and all of them down the drain with two words: I’m pregnant. I should have known better; all those condom ads on the radio and television; all those rather safe than sorry campaigns. Perhaps my death would serve some meaning after all. Perhaps they could use the press pictures as a grim alternative to condom ads. I can only stifle a chuckle at my own joke.

   

  This is it. Joke’s over.

   

  I’m pregnant.

   

  Ground zero.

   

  Are. . . are you sure?

   

  It was fun while it lasted.

   

  Yes.

   


  I take a few deep breaths. My hands are shaking; my palms sweating. This shouldn’t be so damn hard.

   

  I close my eyes.

   

  I exhale deeply and stick the barrel of the gun back into my mouth and manage one final ung! as I squeeze the trigger.

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