I don’t know who’s heart stopped first; mine, or hers, or if it happened simultaneously. All I know is that as that sharp, high pitched alarm filled the air around me, my heart physically stopped. The air was pulled from my lungs, leaving behind a pain that flooded my entire body. A pain so immense, my legs buckled and I crumpled to the floor. Followed by a silence so deep it ensnared me, pulling me into a place so painful no living soul could survive there.
‘Your Dad was right, you’re useless, a failure. No wonder your Mum ran of with the shop keeper.’
Tim clumsily paced around the small cluttered living room, knocking into the old brown coffee table, sending a pile of paper work scuttling across the carpet. His hands were shaking from three days without sleep. His muscles tired and weakened. Tim grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the floor and took a long swig. He hoped the alcohol would invade his body, comatose him, he desperately needed sleep. He prayed that enough alcohol might bring him death, peace.
‘You’re not a failure. He stole away your Mummy, your childhood. You can still make daddy proud.’
Tim turned to look toward the corner of the room, where the voice had come from. The girls soft voice reminded Tim of his Mother.
‘Pick up the gun, Tim.’ she whispered.
‘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 desperately replied,
‘I just want to sleep, I want my Mummy.’
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 the memories crept into his dreams, forcing him awake, sweat covering his body, his heart beating rapidly as his screams echoed around the empty house. The scars that map out across his pale broken body, ache, constantly. Tim ran his fingers through his unwashed hair, rubbing the tip of his thumb along the groove of a ten year old scar. A constant reminder of why he must never ask questions about his Mother. 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.
No one noticed the anxious man walking along Main-street. His hands dug deep into his pockets, as he rubbed the cold metal barrel. The bright florescent lights inside the shop stung Tim’s eyes, blinking he accustomed himself to the new and threatening surroundings. Slowly walking along the aisle toward the cashier at the far end, he watched the old man reading behind the counter, the graveyard shift was always the most peaceful. Without hesitation, Tim 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. The shopkeeper had no time to react as the bullet hurtled towards him, entering his heart.
Tim ran from the shop, out into the night. Struggling to hold himself together, he shouted into the darkness
‘Please, I did it. Please let me sleep.’
It was quite the voices had gone… for now.
I wrote this is an excercise for a tutorial, please feel free to let me know what you think. Thanks for reading.