“Your Dad was right, you’re useless, a failure. No wonder your Mum ran of with the shop keeper To escape her good for nothing son”
Tim edgily paced around the small cluttered living room. His hands shaking from three days without sleep. His muscles tired and weakened. Taking a long swig of whiskey, he silently begged for the alcohol to invade his body, to comatose him, he begged for sleep, perhaps even death.
“Your not a failure. He stole away your Mummy, your childhood. You can still make Daddy proud”
The sweet, innocent female voice, reminded Tim, of his Mother.
“Pick up the gun, Tim” she whispered to him.
Tim paused in front of a broken mirror. His eyes sunken and bloodshot, skin deathly pale. It had been three days since his Fathers funeral. He tried to sleep, but memories of his fractured childhood stopped him. For seventeen years his Father had controlled his every movement. Had beaten him to within an inch of his life. Had constantly reminded him, that it was his fault ’Mummy’ had left.
“Are we doing this, or what”
Tim turned to where he had heard the mans voice come from. Looking directly at the armchair, his drunken dad had occupied for so many years, he half cried, half shouted,
“I just want to sleep, I want my Mummy”.
No one noticed the anxious, paranoid man walking along Main-street. His hands dug deep into his pockets, as he rubbed the cold metal barrel. Without hesitation, he pulled out the 22 Calibre gun, and pointed it towards the shop keeper.
“You stole my Mummy”
The shopkeeper looked from Tim to the gun. His shaking hands rose in a peaceful gesture. Tim pressed hard against the trigger, hoping for relief from the voices.
“Please, I did it. Let me sleep”
It was quite the voices had gone…. for now.
Karen Hayward ©2017