Existence: A Short Tale of Pain and Sorrow

Tim Miller

Copyright © 2014 Tim Miller

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Lance sat on the edge of his bed staring at the floor. In one hand he held a bottle of Jack Daniels, in the other a snub nose .38 revolver. He wasn’t sure what brought him to this point. It could have been getting kicked out of college, losing his job or his girlfriend, Candace, dumping him. Though when it came down to it, every single one of those things was his own fault.

He’d been a junior in college, majoring in business. Like any other college student, he liked to have fun. Maybe too much fun. One night after partying hard with the boys, he decided it would be a good idea to drive home. That turned out to be a horrible idea. In his inebriated state, he failed to see a woman crossing the road. He was driving a Ford Explorer. Needless to say he mowed her down as if she were little more than a speed bump.

After the accident, he’d stopped and got out to check on her. She was lying in the middle of the road all twisted and mangled. Her head was spun all the way around like something from “The Exorcist” except she wasn’t talking or moving. She was dead. Out of panic, he ran back into the Explorer and drove away. It was the middle of nowhere, no one would ever know. No one could know.

Once he was back at his dorm, he fell asleep. By morning, it was as if the whole thing was a foggy, drunken dream. Until he saw the news. The woman was the daughter of some banking tycoon and police were throwing all of their resources into the investigation. Panic struck him immediately.

It’ll be ok. It’ll be fine. He told himself. There was no witnesses and no evidence. No way would they trace it back to him. At least they wouldn’t have had there not been a security camera nearby that recorded his license plate. They picked him up a few days later on his way to class. The entire college saw him being handcuffed and escorted into the police car. Hundreds of eyes were on him as he tried to look at the ground and pretend he wasn’t there, imagining he were somewhere else.

His dad posted his bail, but threw him out of the house. He reported for his job at the feed store the following day, but they told him he was fired. Can’t have drunken murderers there working for them. When he called Candace, she had told him she never wanted to see him again. The walls were closing in. The case against him was a slam dunk. Even with a plea bargain he was looking at twenty years in prison.

So there he was. He took another gulp of the whiskey and glanced at the gun. In his twenty two years on earth, dying wasn’t something he’d thought about. Now it was all he could think about. There was no point in living anymore, at least not in his eyes. From this lost state of mind, he couldn’t see that his parents still loved him. Even though they kicked him out of the house, it was out of anger and frustration at the horrible crime their son had committed.

Prison to him wasn’t any kind of an option. He’d be in his forties by the time he got out, if he didn’t get killed inside first. Then there were the prison rape stories. His mind didn’t even want to go there. No, this was it. It was time. As a kid, one of his classmates had told him people who commit suicide will go to hell. Lance had a hard time believing that. Though he wasn’t even sure if he believed in heaven or hell.

If there was a God, he’d abandoned Lance long ago. Now all he had left was his bottle of Jack and the gun that would soon bring him peace. Something else that bothered him, never once did he feel upset over killing the woman. He felt bad he got caught. He felt really bad for all the problems it had caused him, but never once had he sat and thought about how he had killed a woman, a human being. This was someone’s daughter, sister, or mother. She had her own thoughts, goals and dreams.

The fact that it never bothered him bothered him. What is wrong with me? He often wondered. No matter how hard he tried, he could not muster one ounce of sympathy for the woman or her family. Was it because he’d been so drunk? Fact was, he barely remembered the whole thing. It was like some fog or as if he had watched someone else committing it, but not him. Yet it was him. He was guilty.

Taking the final swig of the whiskey, it burned his throat on the way down as it went straight to his head. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the tingling in his brain intensify. It was time. If he did go to hell, he deserved it anyway. Most likely there was nothing.

Placing the gun in his mouth, he kept his eyes open. He wanted to see everything his final few moments. Carefully, he cocked the hammer back and began to squeeze the trigger. When the gun finally went off, he didn’t even hear it. There was a bright flash as his head jerked back. His body followed as he flopped onto the bed. In his final moments, he saw his own blood and brains splattered onto the wall as things began to fade. He felt a sudden feeling of peace as the darkness came. This was the end of his pain, the end of his suffering, and the end of his existence.