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This writing was accepted for publication in the 96 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “Spiraling” Down in the Dirt (v124) (the July/August 2014 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Need to Know Basis (redacted edition) (the 2014 poetry, flash fiction & short prose collection book)		get this poem collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book What Must be Done (a Down in the Dirt July - Dec. 2014 collection book)		get the 372 page July - Dec. 2014 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Pain

Matthew L. Hall

    The coldness of the steel barrel radiated through his lips and into his skull. The tip rested painfully against his upper palate; the stock was positioned between two bare feet. The icy sensations brought back memories of childhood, where the overindulgent licking of popsicles on the front porch led to countless painful headaches on hot summer days. That was so long ago.
    The only sound in the motel room other than his labored breathing was the faint ticking of a wristwatch, which was buried somewhere in a pile of dirty clothes. The crumpled note on the night stand was direct: “Taking the kids to my mom’s for a few days. Please be gone when we get back.” Little thought was put into it, the message scribbled on the back of a convenience store receipt. It was fitting, however, as it mirrored his lack of effort in their relationship.
    He took the gun out of his mouth and allowed his mind to wander backward in time to happier days. Hiking through pine covered forests; a brunch at a local greasy spoon where she stole tiny bites of pancakes off his plate and then swore the pieces contained no calories as they were not part of her order; the party where she caught the eye of every man in the room but held close to let the vultures know she was taken.
    And then the thoughts shifted. Watching football on Sunday afternoons with his buddies took the place of the once beloved hikes. Dinner was fast food at the drive through for no other reason than just to get it out of way. Parties meant getting changed and showered, and that was too much of an effort to have meaningless conversations with people who were little more than casual acquaintances. He realized, now, that he could have made more of an effort. The subtle clues she had dropped to gain his attention went unnoticed at the time, and her non-confrontational nature never allowed her to address her feelings head on. Her note enabled a quick and clean break.
    The thoughts of the missed opportunities formed in his mind like a pitch black storm cloud. Slowly he could feel them creep down his body. Flowing past his clenched jaw, the memories squeezed at his neck. His gag reflex caused him to swallow instinctively, but there was nothing there - just the pain of having a seemingly sawdust filled throat. Slowly the tension descended to his heart and enveloped it like an iron fist that was slowly massaging the muscle to its own spastic rhythm. It felt as though it would burst through his breast bone.
    Sweat rolled down his fingertips as he gripped the trigger. He pressed his forehead against the barrel as more thoughts invaded his brain. His trembling hands glistened in the late afternoon twilight, which blanketed the room with its warmth.
    He could only imagine what she was doing tonight. At this very second, she was probably standing in front of her vanity, checking herself out in a new little black dress bought for a special occasion. Twisting and turning under the bedroom light, making sure everything fit just right. Or maybe she was in the bathroom, drying off after a refreshing shower, hair up in a towel, toe-nails being painted. No doubt she was getting beautiful for her new certain someone.
    Although he had no idea what she was doing, he was pretty sure how she was feeling. It was the same sensation that he got as a child on Christmas morning as he squirmed in his bed waiting for his parents to get up and tell him it was OK to open the presents under the tree. It was the shear anticipation, the excitement of the possibilities ahead, the mystery, and the intrigue. At that very moment her heart must be racing, wondering what the night had in store.
    He wasn’t letting his imagination run wild. In the weeks preceding her leaving, he thought he had noticed small changes in her behavior. She had appeared happier than usual, and he had caught her on a couple occasions just staring out the window, lost in thought and smiling. She was also obsessively checking her phone, but his quizzical looks prompted her to say that she was involved in a big project at work. And then, the day before she left with the kids for her mom’s, he found the message. A folded blue index card lay on the floor beneath her purse that was hanging from a hook in the foyer. Distinctive male handwriting stated: “That was fun! Let’s do it again.” A smiley face with little horns followed his phone number. He was slightly stunned at first, but not overly surprised, and he put the card back exactly where he had found it.
    That night proved to be sleepless as he lay awake pondering the best way to approach her. He tossed and turned, but she never moved a muscle. Only an occasional snort betrayed her presence in the darkness. He finally nodded off just before sunrise with an outline of a plan, but the late night had taken its toll. By the time he awoke the spot next to him was empty and cold, and the note she left put a stop to any ill-conceived line of questioning he had formulated in his sleep deprived brain. Wandering back into the foyer he noticed both the purse and index card were gone. It was probably just as well, since he could not handle suffering further indignity. He knew that he had ignored her and pushed her away. Nothing for her to do but leave, and he would honor her request and leave before she returned.
    The knuckles on his right hand were turning white from gripping the barrel so hard. The muscle in his forearm was throbbing, begging to be relieved of the pressure. His left thumb was nestled, comfortably, in the steel cradle, ready to oblige the bidding of the slightest contraction. How did I ever get to this? he thought. One more deep breath; fleeting thoughts of countless happier days; a brief scan for any regrets. He bit the end of the gun and squeezed the trigger as hard as he could.
***
    Her cream-colored silk slip clung to the contours of her body. The slight fold in her midsection was not there twenty years ago, a reminder that she was a mom twice over, but she knew she looked good. The V-neck, which plunged delicately between her breasts, was trimmed in lace and accented by a tiny bow at the center.
    The wrinkles in the corners of her eyes were reminiscent of twenty years of happiness and sorrow, anger and contentment, acceptance and denial. Lately the mileage had come from a feeling of trapped helplessness, a creeping loss of self that was making her slowly lose her mind. The note was crass, she knew that, but subtlety was a luxury she felt she could not afford. Write the note and get out, her inner voice had told her. Do it. Run. There would be pain, but there was no other way.
    She remembered how they feel in love. The quick glances that evolved into constant eye contact; casual conversations about nothing that gave way to meaningful discussions about life; and the inadvertent brushes against one another that developed into passionate embraces. It started as storybook, but the daily effort had taken its toll on the promise of a happy ending. What lay in front of her, not behind, was all that mattered now.
    The air conditioning kicking on startled her. She grabbed her dress from the hanger on the back of the door, unzipped the back, and then delicately stepped in one foot at a time. Standing in front of the mirror she thought she looked more than presentable. She had toyed with the idea of getting a new dress for the occasion, but her choice of outfit had wowed in the past, and there was no sense in experimenting with something new. A quick check of the hair and the makeup met with approving eyes and a wry grin. She picked up her purse and threw her wrap over her shoulders. A deep breath and a throat clearing cough were punctuated by an inner affirmation that she could, she should, go forward.
    She checked her phone and saw no messages from her kids. They were settled down at sleepovers for the evening.
    With a flick of the light switch the room was cloaked in darkness. She closed the door behind her.
***
    He expected a bright light, but all he heard was a “click.” For some unknown reason the shotgun failed to deliver. Casting it aside, he slowly crumpled onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably. His sobs were interrupted only by his retching. The bile burned the back of his throat as he tried to spit any volume of the substance on the carpet. Nothing solid came up – he had not eaten for days. He let his forehead touch the floor. The smell nearly made him vomit again.
    After what seemed like hours he slowly rose to his feet. First one hand, then the other, followed by knees warily brought to his chest. The night stand made an excellent crutch to help him make it the rest of the way. The room spun slightly as he tried to wipe away the tears in his eyes, and the mucus running down from his nose tasted salty in his mouth. As he sat on the edge of the bed, he rested his elbows upon his thighs and draped his head so low that his chin almost touched his chest. It was an ideal position to deal with the dry heaving that was wrenching his shoulders and back. The periodic spasms from his stomach produced strings of drool that hung almost to the floor.
    The beer bottles strewn about the room were a reminder of the past few weeks and of what his life so quickly had become. Pieces of stale pizza crust littered the coffee table, and a half-eaten tub of salsa attracted a few flies around its moldy lip. A brown mass, hopefully chocolate, was driven into the rug by a careless foot. His obsession wondering who she was with had turned into a paralysis. For the first week after he moved out he got nothing accomplished at work, so he decided to just stay in the motel. He knew that missing three consecutive days without prior authorization were grounds for termination, and the message he received on his cell phone the previous day confirmed just that. Things had snowballed so quickly. First the stunning realization that he was an inadequate husband, and now he was faced with the fact that he could no longer provide for his children. It was a one-two punch from which it was impossible to recover.
    As he sat there covered in sweat it occurred to him that the misfire may have been a sign to stop, to move on, but the optimism quickly evaporated when he let his mind start to race again. He could envision her at the gym with her friends, complaining and bragging to them that she could not ride the stationary bike because of the passionate events from the night before. The women giggle, she tells the story, and nobody exercises. Less graphic, but equally as painful, he thought of her and her lover meeting for a clandestine stroll near a moonlit lake, reminiscent of walks that they, too, took, only years ago. One thought melted into the next and back again.
    A quick shake of his head helped remind him it was not a sign, merely a malfunction, and that could be remedied. He had suffered too much humiliation to turn back now. He popped the cartridge out of the chamber, examined it, and slid it back into place.
***
    When she tossed her purse in the passenger seat, the index card popped out and landed on the leather upholstery. She smiled as she picked it up and turned it over and over in her hand, rotating it between her thumb and fore and middle fingers. “What a coincidence,” she said, chuckling to no one, “As if I need further encouragement!” Even though she had long since memorized the number, she still kept the card. It was the most thoughtful, and flirtatious, token of affection that she had received in ages. She remembered that day, a couple of months ago, when they met. It was at a work gathering, one massive team building exercise that the higher ups thought would make the company more productive. Her sales department was paired with the people in finance, and they were tasked with brainstorming a program on how to recognize, promote, and celebrate high achievers.
    She sat near the back of the room; he walked in late and took a seat next to her. Within minutes his snarky comments about the whole thing had her giggling. After a half-hour her sides hurt from laughing so hard. At his suggestion they made it a game to pretend to take a drink every time the facilitator said “synergies.” During the break they introduced themselves and chatted, and at lunch they engaged in more small talk. By the end of the meeting he had given her the card with his number; the horns to remind her of his charming subversiveness. The attraction, if not instant, was there at the end of the day.
    She hesitated a moment before putting the car in reverse and easing out of the driveway.
***
    When he cast his eyes downward, the partially hidden flask on the bed caught his attention. He placed the gun on the sheet and reached for the shiny metallic object that lately had been a source of comfort. With both hands he carefully ran his fingertips around the smooth edges, the chrome finish displaying trails of perspiration from his fingers. He traced the inscription with his fingernail: “Happy 10^th Anniversary. I Love You.” Flipping the vessel over, he continued with his outlining. He followed the cursive lines of his engraved initials, which were carved directly above hers.
    He remembered the day she gave it to him. The gift was a surprise on the morning of their anniversary, and as if the present wasn’t enough, she had filled it with his favorite scotch. They were staying in a cozy bed-and-breakfast in a picturesque town, and he took sips all afternoon while they wandered in and out of shops, buying the occasional snack and trinket. By dinner he was feeling its effects, so she playfully joined him with some wine in a nondescript container of her own. They spent the remainder of the evening strolling beneath the lights of the lampposts and standing under the stars in the park in the center of town. They kissed for what seemed like hours in the gazebo, while the peeping frogs in the nearby pond serenaded their every movement.
    Those memories are useless now, he thought to himself. Clutching the flask in his right hand, he reared back and threw it at the wall as hard as he could. The impact must have been audible in the adjoining room, but no protest was heard. Where it landed exactly he did not see, but the indentation on the wall validated his disgust.
***
    The car timidly coasted into the motel parking lot and came to rest against the concrete barrier between the asphalt and the sidewalk. Butterflies fluttered throughout her stomach; hands trembled on the wheel as she turned the ignition off. The small beads of sweat on her forehead were amplified by the cool air streaming from the vents on the dashboard. She caught her reflection in the review mirror, her eyes staring back at her. The deep blue pools were sincere, reassuring, and nonjudgmental. Go on, they told her. You have permission.
    She stepped out of her car.
    Fast food wrappers hovered gently in the breeze, rising and falling like marionettes being manipulated by a skilled puppeteer. The clinking of a rolling soda can was audible as it passed under the few cars parked nearby. Half of the neon sign was dark; the rest of it flickered sporadically. Her body quivered slightly as she was standing next to her car in the twilight. Turning slightly she leaned against the fender to steady herself and clutched her purse with both hands to help steel her resolve. The voice in her head was telling her that she was doing the right thing, and she knew the voice was right. It was what she should do. She knew to find him in Room 16.
***
    Once more, he foisted the 12 gauge upwards, thumb on the trigger and the other hand around the barrel as if drinking from a grotesque yard. The glaring overhead light, littered full of insect carcasses, formed an illuminating halo beyond the butt of the gun. A slight twitch of his left thumb and a glint of light travelled down the barrel like a comet screaming through the night sky. Thoughts of childhood, memories of happiness, despair; slight warmth, the smell of gun powder, a faint noise. Darkness.
***
    The “1” on the door was straight as an arrow, but the “6” had drifted off-kilter from the years of slamming and kicking. She paused momentarily as she rocked slightly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She wondered if the inertia would send her back toward her car, but she quickly extinguished that thought. She was where she wanted to be; where she needed to be. Her fingers slowly collapsed into a fist as she raised her left hand to knock on the door.
    The sound of the blast tore through her ears. She heard a shriek, but she was unsure if it had come from her own throat. Stunned and ears ringing, she instinctively flung open the door and stumbled across the threshold. As she steadied herself against the wall, her eyes darted frantically around the room until they came to focus on the horrific scene in front of her: a crescent moon blood spatter was cascading down the grimy yellow wallpaper, and the lifeless body of her husband was sprawled beneath on the bed.
    Her limbs went cold and numb, and she dropped to her knees. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, just deep breaths. What if I hadn’t hesitated? What if I had gotten here just a minute earlier? she thought to herself. Her mind raced, partially from anxiety, as well as from the avalanche of emotions that accompanied the realization that there would never be any second chances, explanations, or apologies. The twinges of self-doubt she had felt in the car were rendered moot by his decisiveness. Catching her breath, her eyes widened as she slowly came to the realization that in death he had given her what he couldn’t in life: her freedom.
    There was only one thing that she could do now. Reaching in her purse she pulled out her phone. Barely visible, but sticking out of the top of the zipper was the devilish little face on the edge of the blue index card, smiling at her as she dialed. The phone rang a few times before being picked up. “Hi there, Mr. Synergies,” she said coyly, drawing the word out twice as long as needed. “I’m free tomorrow night.”

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