Survival

The mailbox was empty.
Huh, three days in a row… weird, he thought.
The most interesting thing to happen that day.

So far.

Before heading back in, he looked over his truck parked on the street. Her car was in the two-vehicle-wide driveway, just like every day.

Then a thought struck him. It was surprising in its comfort, its simplicity. Maybe it was the warmth of the summer evening, the lullaby of tree frogs and crickets playing their fiddles... the emptiness of the neighborhood just before bed time.
Whatever the reason, he didn’t want to lose the thought, so he didn’t pause to reconsider.

Walking back in the house, he went straight upstairs to his night stand.

"Nine millimeter ought to do just fine", he said out loud to himself.
She was in the shower, caught up in her own trivialities. He thought he heard her ask him a question, but he didn't respond. Another thought entered his mind at that moment and he stood still for a few more seconds.

If she speaks again...
He mused.

Standing still, waiting, he felt like a coward.
No, it's your choice, don't wait for her to decide for you. Not anymore.
He took a deep breath.
She won’t notice I’m gone for another hour or so... or more.

His body moved on autopilot, keeping his brain stuck in a feedback loop with itself. Back outside he went straight to his truck and sat behind the wheel. His heart was losing control and he had to slow his breathing.

Stay in your body, he repeated to himself over the shouts of his consciousness.

His mind was clearly set, and yet wasn’t. The first inclination was pure and simple. And then another, smaller voice, the voice of instinct .. of survival.

A mind beside itself. Which one wins out?
The survival of his ego? Or survival of the flesh? His ego was desperate:
"You get to place the period, no, the EXCLAMATION point. The final word. Nobody can take that away from you. This is just one logical option among many." It rattled on.
Isn't that pure self-preservation? Isn't this a way to survive? My legacy?

The flesh, waiting for its turn to speak, chimed in:
"Absurd, have you really exhausted all other options? Do you really want to give up? Why don't you fight? Fight another day?"

“What if there’s another fight after this?” He whispered out loud to himself, staring through the windshield at the rows of carriage lights down the street. He was avoiding the sight of the lead salad filling his hand.

No wonder the serpent got away with it, he considered, if there was only another voice maybe those knuckleheads wouldn't have fucked things up for the rest of us.

But the voices stopped. They could talk on and on all day, but one of them was right, it was his choice now. And both of those voices were part of him. Right?

Fight, sure. Well… maybe I’ll have better luck with a different fight, He thought.

Who knows exactly which side will win out when truly confronted. And maybe luck decides which one is ultimately the strongest. Your genes, your parents, the direction the wind is blowing, the phase of the moon, where is Mercury, exactly?

Across the street the neighbor's carriage light flickered. He put the Barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

"I wanted to finish the things I'd do for you. The grand gestures, the ideas, the small moments of thoughtful care and desperation. Until I realized my efforts to craft some semblance of joy was me just clawing at the stone walls of your heart."
She didn't respond, it was clear he wasn't finished.
"But now, you just piss me off so fucking much, I’d rather set fire to every good thing I’ve done than to watch you enjoy it."

He thought maybe his brutal honesty would jar a stone loose, or maybe chip away at the mortar, something to let the warmth of light come through. For the past five years he kept so much inside, thinking he could handle it, hoping things would just get better with time. Why was it so hard for him to just say what he felt?
Because the things you feel aren't good, that's why. Who wants to hear such awful things? Is what he always told himself. You don't get to share those things, you just gotta deal with it.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she started, her eyes flicked every few seconds back to the muted tv. "it's not like ..."

A grunt escaped his gut, he couldn't listen. He admitted to himself that he was probably already expecting the worst but he just knew it was another line of her excuses. She wanted to get back to her show so badly. So he waited for her to stop.

“I know this isn’t what you expected," he sighed, “or what you wanted."
He stood up, and her eyes went to the remote in his hands as his grip made it groan under the pressure.
God, she can't wait to ignore me again.
"I won’t ask you to try anymore, but it would be nice to not be reminded every fucking day that I’m a giant inconvenience. Reminded that I stole your life from you somehow... or the life you feel you deserved.”
It sounded like a major pity party, even to him.
But he didn't care anymore.

"I'm gonna check the mail."
He unmuted the tv and walked out. As soon as the door closed she began to cry.

Well, that answers that. 
For him, it was survival of the flesh.

He flinched at the last possible microsecond - involuntarily? - and the bullet wreaked havoc on his mug … but didn’t kill him.

One of the serpents, why couldn't there be two? - he decided he didn't trust either of the voices - took over while the other wasn't "looking", and saved the day.

But saved for what?

He woke up to a scream. Deep and piercing. It was muffled behind his damaged ear drums and the guy on the radio.

I didn't turn on the radio.

"Alright night owls, truckers, huckers, and late-night mother-lovers. We got you covered through the long haul. Hey, speaking of owls"
The DJ played a cheesy owl's "who" sound effect from his soundboard.

"We got The Who coming at you with 'Show me the Way' - followed by another 'who', 'Who Wants to Live --"

Another scream interrupted his tunes, it was beginning to annoy him. He didn't care for The Who but he actually liked this song.

Good, he thought, she actually does care. That's good. Maybe it wasn't a serpent after all. But why? Why the spectacle? Why did I have to do this? His undulating consciousness rambled, I guess I’ll never find out, not here. It’s over, and I can die now.

...

He waited.

...

I said I can die now.

He started to feel the blood dripping down his belly and soaking his groin. The sides began to dry and scab his pajama pants.

How long have I been here? Wait, how am I still here?

"Fuck", he tried to say from his almost tongue-less mouth.

The car door opened as his hearing came back.

You can't fix it now, it's too late.

"Too late," He mumbled. To make the "T" sound his tongue muscles instinctively tried to press the roof of his scorched mouth. But it only waggled over his neck.

"Mister – oh my God, I'm going to call an ambulance. Oh God, mister, no don't --"

Pain started to creep around his skull, spreading from the missing teeth, the shattered jaw, cracks ran up to his eye socket, and the hot bullet lodged in his neck meat just below the ear. Throbbing blood spurted with each beat of his sad quiet heart.

"…Yoouu, to show me the way…"

The woman came back. She asked for his name, age, height, weight.
What a stupid bitch, can't you see my face?

"Oh, I don't know" She moaned, "Just get here fast"

She tried to comfort him and got suddenly quiet as she noticed the gun still in his hand.

It's not even her, He realized. God dammit. Well looky here… right again… right all along. It'll be trash day next week before her aggravation boils over enough to even bother. His anger was unaffected by the gunshot.
How the fuck did I miss? Fucking hell, I can't even kill myself right.
She'd get a kick out of that. Go ahead and bring it up at our next session.
"I try every day to love him, but just look at that piss poor job he did on his face. I mean, do you really expect me to respect him, still? He's just so helpless" she would let out with a resigned sigh, "I guess I have to do everything."
She'd feign reluctance as she pulls her own gun right there in the office and -

BAM! BAM!...
BAM!...
Two in the chest, one in the head. Thorough. Now that's how you get through a stone cold heart. Then a memory of standing outside the bathroom while she showered.

The stranger softly touched his shoulder to try and comfort him. In that moment she was grateful he shot the right side of his face, so she didn't have to see all the damage. He was getting himself worked up and his breathing became more steady. Somehow he was more aware, clear, even.

"I want yoouu," sang Pete and the band.

The steering wheel and the dash came into focus. He couldn't move his head, which was completely encased in the hull of a rocking ship, rolling through waves of torment. Each throb blurred his view. His one good eye looked at the clock. He felt a sharp knife stabbing pain in his right socket as it tried to execute the commands of his brain.

CNS:/error
CNS:/no hardware found
CNS:/press any key to shut down

He didn't know what he did, but his faculties were fucked.
He let his eyes rest and close…
some time passed
… then opened again with a start.
The clock read, 11:11.

"Make a wish", he tried to say, the left side of his crimson-stained lips barely formed the "M" sound.

"Shh shhh, try not to talk", the stranger reassured him, "They're almost here".
He heard distant sirens, but didn't want to wait much longer. He watched the clock as the organ swelled on the radio. A new song.

"Who" turned on the radio?

"I wish" He whispered, all the vowel sounds were the same through his deconstructed maxilla.
"I wish…"

His rescuer couldn't make out the words. She felt nervous and decided to slowly reach for the pistol while his eyes were closed.

"There's no time for us…" Started the singer. His eyes opened again.

11:12
What did you wish for? They asked in unison.

His eye startled her and she lightly touched his hand.
He tightened his grip, snapped the barrel up, and pulled the trigger.