One squeeze of the trigger and it’s all over.
The pistol was cold on his tongue, like a metallic popsicle. It weighed upon his jaw, keeping it
pried open as saliva pooled between his tongue and the small hole where the slug would come
blasting out to end his life.
Pull it, you coward. Darkness is waiting just on the other side. No more pain, no more regret.
Just darkness.
His hands didn’t shake this time, nerves long gone after going through this same routine for the
tenth time in just as many years. He already knew that this would play out with him removing
the pistol, cursing the world, and passing out on the couch. The pills in his stomach swirled
around the tide pool of whiskey, along for another ride.
Every September reminded Martin Briar of how much he hated his life. His once-normal life
waited 22 years in the past. It was Labor Day of 2018 when Martin sat in his apartment with his
pistol between his teeth. He had cried the first two years of attempting this, and knew that it was
only a matter of time before the good graces of death would finally help him pull the trigger.
Minutes ago, he had smoked a cheap cigar while washing down a handful of colorful pills with a
glass of whiskey. From the balcony of his rundown apartment, he had a view of the sunset with
its blue mountains and orange glowing sky, but he took it for granted. Whiskey and tobacco
came from the Earth, and that was the extent he cared for Mother Nature.
It was Monday the 3rd, and the upcoming Sunday would officially mark 22 years since his
daughter’s disappearance. The Imagine Dragons sang through his cell phone speakers from the
balcony’s chipped and rough handrail. He stood with his elbows on it, the only other neighboring
object being an ashtray he never used.
Lela, his ex-wife from many moons ago, had gifted him the ashtray. The bottom of the tray was a
yellow circle with black lettering that read: World’s Greatest Dad!
He had been the world’s greatest dad, too, at least according to Izzy. Izzy, formally named
Isabel, had grown up to be quite the daddy’s girl, always running to him when he arrived home
from work and jumping into his embrace. She was only 12 years old when she had gone missing
in 1996.
Kids have a way of distracting you from the fact that you are getting older with each passing day,
and Izzy provided the same fountain of youth effect for Martin.
He was 32 when she disappeared. His entire twenties had gone by in a blur, thanks to Isabel.
While his friends went out drinking and partying every weekend, Martin stayed home and
watched shows like Rugrats and Arthur. He wouldn’t have traded it for a single night out, loving
every moment with his little family in their first home, a small ranch-style house just north of
Denver in Larkwood.
Martin grew up in Larkwood, his parents having moved there well before he was born. His
mother still lived in his childhood home, just two blocks away. While most people would flee the
quiet town after such a tragedy like losing a child, Martin couldn’t picture life anywhere else in
the world. Larkwood was home and always would be. Going away wouldn’t bring Isabel back. If
she were ever to return, it would likely be to the last place she could remember.
Now at the age of 54, Martin didn’t know if he’d even recognize his daughter. She would be 34
years old, a beautiful woman approaching the tail end of her prime. Of course you’ll know her
face. You stare at it every day. From the small picture he kept in his wallet, to the 8x10 on his
nightstand, he would damn well know his own daughter if she showed up all of these years later.
Martin stood in front of a mirror in his living room, staring at his pathetic self. His body had
swollen over the years. What was once an athletic, six-foot frame of muscle was now a round
collection of fast food and booze. His brown hair was plastered across his forehead with sweat.
He started to wheeze, feeling his heart rate increase by the second as he stared at himself. His
pale skin was now a light shade of red.
“Isabel,” he mumbled around the muzzle. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he fought their attempt
to run down his face.
He ripped the pistol out of his mouth and threw it aside, falling into the soft couch waiting to
catch him from behind.
Well, here we are again. You chickened out. Is the temptation really that hard to resist?
As he had done the previous nine times, Martin couldn’t pull the trigger, knowing that his mother
would have to clean up the mess and bury her son. His brother had moved across the country
years ago, around the same time that Izzy went missing, and had remained mostly estranged to
the family. His father had passed when they were younger, leaving Marilyn Briar all alone,
should Martin end his shitty life.
Just wait until she passes away – then we can ride off into the darkness together.
His mom was in great shape and nowhere near death, so it would take a few more years to reach
that point. Once she was gone, though, there would be no more roadblocks, no hesitations from
entering the darkness and leaving his lifelong sorrow behind.
Tuesday awaited with a full day of work at the post office, as if he needed an additional reason to
shoot himself. He took the job for the guarantee of having Sundays and holidays off. Days off
were all he looked forward to anymore. The customers were needy and whiny.
So many goddamn entitled little shits! he thought at the end of each shift. The days felt longer
than eight hours as the clock on the wall teased him all day. His coworkers lacked any sort of
personality and seemed to hate life as much as he did. At least they had that much in common.
Martin had fallen into the trap of monotonously going through the daily grind. Leave for work at
seven in the morning, slog through five hours of mind-numbingly boring tasks until lunchtime,
eat a bland sandwich made half-assed while drunk the night before, slog through until four
o’clock, go home to drink booze and eat microwaveable dinners, make the bland sandwich for
the next day, and then go to sleep. Work. Drink. Sleep. Repeat.
Sometimes he fantasized about being adventurous, but he had no clue what he would do. The
numbness that remained in his chest since 1996 wasn’t going anywhere and made everyday life
difficult to enjoy. He’d tried going to sporting events, the shooting range, even a book club. They
all had the same result in leaving him unsatisfied and longing for the next day, one day closer to
death where he could forget all of his problems and either start over or enjoy the darkness.
Whatever the hell happens after this life can’t be worse.
The pistol was somewhere in the corner of the room as he started to doze off. He knew he
wouldn’t have the urge to use it again until next year. The intensity of sticking an instrument of
death in his mouth was enough to last him a full three hundred and sixty-five days.
Work. Drink. Sleep. Repeat. Tomorrow is another day in the glorious life of Martin Briar. ...
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
