Ilan Bouchard

Still unsure of what to write, Bret stared at the pen that rested on
his blank notepad. It was ironic how once one’s life was so close to
an end, stressful situations still managed to squeeze themselves into
the last few minutes.

Bret had taken the day off from work. He stayed home the entire day,
cleaning the house, leaving chocolate and money on his son and
daughter’s bedside. Now only one thing left to do. Two things
actually.

The first was to write a letter, and that’s what he was doing. Or
attempting to do. He stared at the pen he held, a gold body with
silver lines that curved up and down the pen. It had cost Bret one
hundred and fifty dollars. He looked at it with disgust; surprised he
had put such priorities first.

The pen lay poised above the paper, a snake ready to strike its
victim, hanging in the air. Bret considered how to start his letter
off. Should he write a long, depressing letter that showed everyone
how he saw the world? Should he instead write an uplifting, reassuring
epistle that told of greater places he may now be? Or should he write
a concise letter that told everyone everything in one sentence?
Perhaps no letter at all would suffice, leave people wondering and
coming to their own conclusion.

Bret now considered each, deciding a letter was appropriate. He
looked out the window. His son, Ben, of seven years, would be coming
home from school soon. He stared back at his pen again, and then
started to write. His hand was steady; his writing came out fluidly
and impulsively with no preparation.

Dear Patty,
Life for me has been a series of chores for too long. Everything I do
leaves me feeling miserable, no matter how happy it should make me
feel. I know you and Ben love me and I love you too, but I just can’t
keep up with it all anymore.
As you read this, know that I am in a better place. I am watching
over you, smiling and knowing you will watch over Ben, and both of you
shall ultimately be happier in the end without me. I felt as if I had
no purpose to fulfill. I was ready to move on.
I suppose the bigger question you’d like me to answer is just –

Ben walked into his father’s study. Bret had not noticed the school
bus that came and left. Bret sinuously ripped the paper he was writing
on off his notepad, folded it twice, and put it in his shredder. Ben
and Bret greeted each other, and Ben left to go to his room. There
were homework assignments to be finished and games to be played.
Bret felt worse. He looked at the fresh leaf of paper and closed his
eyes. He put the pen on the paper; eyes still closed, and wrote in
shaking letters,

To Patty, Ben, and everyone else who ever mattered to me,
I wasn’t good enough for all of you. I guess you weren’t good enough
for me.
Love,
Bret

Tears splashing onto the sheet, Bret laid his paperweight, a glass ball
with shards of silver plates that shimmered throughout it, onto the
sheet. Then he took his key, unlocked the second drawer to his desk,
cocked the revolver and shot himself beneath the chin. The bullet
traveled from the back of his mouth into his brain, and out through the
back of his head, finally leaving and cracking the window behind him.
Bret fell to his right, brains and blood pasted to the window and
dripping down his body onto the floor. His last thought was his regret
for his action, his inadequate letter, and the failures he left behind.

Ben came in, startled by the noise.

__________________
Ruthless comments encouraged!

Scratches

Very saddening Ilan... of course, being that this is second person, I'm guessing this wasn't one inspired by the "Suicide in the first person" thread?

This reminds me quite horribly of a supposed suicide note I wish I'd never seen. I suppose celebrity diminishes none of the same emotions.

Argh! Sick and effective ending. (Embarassingly enough my first thought at this was Kill Bill.)

__________________

Never get so attached to a poem
you forget truth that lacks lyricism
and never draw so close to the heat
that you forget that you must eat
- En Gallop, Joanna Newsom

Ilan Bouchard

Thanks for the reply. I wrote this before I even joined WF, so the Suicide in First Person had no effect on it. Now that you mention it though, I may re-write this story in the first person, if I can bring myself to do so.

Any ideas for a title? I can never name my short stories...

__________________
Ruthless comments encouraged!

Scratches

Hmm. All I can come up with is "Finality" or something similarly cheesy. I'm no good at naming either.

__________________

Never get so attached to a poem
you forget truth that lacks lyricism
and never draw so close to the heat
that you forget that you must eat
- En Gallop, Joanna Newsom

_underscore

It wasnt really creative but it was well written and easy to read. I remember reading Tom Clancy's "Rainbow Six" in the sixth grade and the descriptions of the violence were very graphic, your ending reminded me of them.

zaoshang

Impressive. This story is well written and well built. I’d see it as a meditation on the very act of writing

A good title could relate to the idea that sometimes it’s so difficult to find the adequate words or to do the appropriate things.

Well done!

Queasy Dillo

If I might make a suggestion -

To me, travel implies movement over a long distance (i.e., a bullet from a sharpshooter's rifle). Since the seperation of the roof of the to the brain is nobody's defintion of a long distance, you might replace 'traveled' with 'passed'.

Just an idea. Pretty good otherwise.

__________________
You have not yet begun to scratch the surface of my depravity.

Ilan Bouchard

Thanks, the three of you.

Good suggestion, thanks.

__________________
Ruthless comments encouraged!