Short Story: 15 Years

Short Story: 15 Years

15 Years

Brent was awoken by nothing in particular. He slowly opened his eyes, letting reality filter in little by little. He stretched out his left arm and was surprised, surprised to feel cool sheets instead of his wife. He wiped his eyes and peered over. Everything was fuzzy without his glasses. Actually, fuzzy wasn't the word, he was borderline blind without them. After a few minutes of squinting he could make out that Beth's (his wife) side of the bed wasn't just cold, it was made up - as if she had been gone for hours.

He didn't panic, it was strange, unsettling even - but by no means the end of the world. She had probably not been able to sleep and had snuck out of bed to go play some poker on the computer in the office. No big deal, nothing to start screaming and flailing about. But don't get him wrong, it was odd. In the 15 years of marriage, he couldn't remember one time he had woken up in the morning not to find her lying there next to him, either fast a sleep or a hundred or so pages into her current novel.

He took a moment to wake up fully, finally stepping out of bed and into his ratty old slippers. He took a few steps from the bed and grabbed his robe from the back of the chair. He noticed her robe was still hung in the same place they had taken them off last night. Hmm was all that he said, it barely audible in the silent house.

He stepped from the peaceful tomb-like bedroom and into the much louder hallway. He could hear the rumblings of the outside world - cars, dogs barking, even the occasional scream of one of the neighbor’s kids; all the usual shit that happened on Saturday mornings. As he rounded the corned and stepped into their cosy kitchen, he noticed the clock. It was 9.25am - no reason to panic. She had probably just gotten tired of lying in bed. It had been sometime since they had made a routine of sleeping late. Workdays or not, they were usually up and milling around the house by eight, eight-thirty at the latest.

He shook the thoughts from his head as he poured himself a hot cup of coffee. See, the coffee is still hot - he said to himself - how far could she have gone? His attempts to shake the thoughts were useless and he knew this. He was a worried, had been and was always going to be. Came from his mother, or at least that was what he was told. To be honest, he didn't know where he had gotten it but it sure had snuck up on him, hard and fast. Part of getting older and wiser he thought.

Surprisingly, he hadn't checked the office. He took another gulp of his almost too hot coffee and then walked towards the small cramped office. He hated how small and cluttered it was, but still hadn't moved it downstairs as he said he was going to do once all the children had moved out. They had all gone two years ago, so perhaps he just didn't find it that important. Plus, he always liked to keep their rooms empty, just in case they needed a place to come back to. He knew they wouldn't, but it made him feel good. And what was better than that?

The office door was closed. As he walked to it his mind went over all the possibilities of this. Had his snoring been so loud down the hall that she had to close it? Was she looking at internet porn again? Was she talking to someone online, e-cheating as he had heard some of his younger co-workers call it? This thought distracted him for a moment, as he considered of how foolish it was to throw "e" in front of things. I guess that was another part of growing old, or maybe it was just as dumb to everyone else... regardless of age.

He turned the knob and gave the thick wooden door a push. It made its trademark squeak before swinging open and revealing an empty office. It was dead in there, the computer wasn't even running. There was no cooling cup of coffee leaving a wet ring on the hard oak surface. Hmm, he said again. He took another look around, maybe for a note or something. But there was nothing. He grabbed the door and pulled it shut. But not all the way, he lept it cracked open a few inches. Just because.

He stepped back out into the kitchen and grabbed his coffee cup. His mind began to race a little, nothing major - but it was definitely going a little faster than it's usual self. He made his way towards the kitchen table, sliding out the chair and plopping himself down on it.

Where could she be? The supermarket? No, they had gone shopping yesterday - nothing was needed for at least a week or so. Most of their close friends were on vacation, plus, once you hit 50 years old - you didn't do a lot of socializing without your husband, at least they didn't. They were always together and he liked it that way. He sat there sipping his coffee, thinking and, every so often, sneaking a peek out the window that faced the driveway.

He had been there for almost an hour but hadn't noticed. He was kept occupied by the sounds and smells of the world. He had watched out the window, wondering and waiting for Beth to pull into the driveway with her Volvo station wagon. He imagined watching her slowly get out and grab something from the backseat and then he would instantly remember she had been going to her sister’s house and all of this would be over... the worrying, all this thinking. He had to admit, it was getting tiring.

As he decided to get a refill of coffee - it was surely cold by now - the phone rang, startling him a little. He took a second, gathered his bearings and scuffled towards the phone. Grabbing the old cordless model, he picked it up and spun it around, looking at the caller I.D., hoping it was a familiar number. But no use, it was some number he didn’t recognize. He didn't answer those, never had, that is why you buy a answering machine - so that you don't have to talk to strangers or waste your time on those fucking telemarketers. He let out a sigh, it wasn't her - he was sure of it. Where would she be calling from, the number didn't even start with the right digits. He made his way to the sink just as the answering machine clicked on.

And he froze, froze solid as he heard the voice and the tone.

"Brent.... Brent, Hunny, pick up the phone."

To anybody else, that would've sounded like a normal everyday telephone call from his wife of 15 years. But Brent knew something was different, there was something about her voice. The way she had said that very simple phrase. He couldn't make it out. If you had asked him what was wrong, he would've shrugged, he wouldn't have had a clue. All he would've said was there was something wrong with his wife.

"We need to talk." she continued. The four worst words you can hear from your spouse. No matter who says it, the husband or the wife.... it is like taking a Mike Tyson punch to the gut. Now he really didn't want answer. Why would he, it was only going to get worse. But he did, he had to - just for curiosity’s sake.

He let out another defeated sigh and slowly walked to the phone, part of him wanting to walk slow enough that she'd just hang up. The other half won, he reached and grabbed the phone again, this time squeezing it in his hand. He wanted to throw it but he answered instead.

"Hel.." he cleared his throat, readying himself for what may lay ahead. "Hello?"

A moment passed. 'Hi, dear." she responded and then another moment of silence passed.

"What do you need to talk about Beth?" he butted in; he couldn't take the silence... not right now.

"I'm... I am..." she was having trouble saying whatever it was she felt needed to be said. Silence passed again, although it didn't feel like silence, not today - it felt like a million people screaming at the same time.

He cleared his throat again, letting her know he was still on the other line... still waiting for her to smash him into a thousand little pieces. He knew what she had to say, he knew what she was about to do - she was about to unravel 20 years of his, of their life - if you counted the time they dated before the wedding, which he did. He knew all too well what was going on, he was soon to be a three-time divorcee. And no matter what anyone says, it never gets easier... it still feels like getting run over and over by an 18 wheeler full of hate and discontent.

The thought came and went in a split second, as she interrupted it.

"I am no longer happy, Brent. I no longer can live in that house... with you." It was worse than he had thought, the way she had to point out she didn't want to live in the house... with him. No shit, he thought, it's not like the divot in the front lawn has kept her up night after night and she just can't share a home with it. Obviously it was him... but it also had to be something else, someone else was more like it. At 50 years old, you didn't just decide you were sick of your husband and wanted to move into a cute little apartment all by yourself.

"Who is it?" was all he asked. He didn't yell, he didn't ask why... and he did his best to hold back the tears that were now filling up his eyes.

He heard her fumble over words, trying her best to not sound like an over-the-hill tramp. But she knew that was impossible - you are what you are.

"What do you mean, who? There is no who... I just can't keep going on like this..."

"Like what?" he cut her off.

"Like this, like we have been for the past 2 or 3 years. I'm bored."

Ouch, that stung. He winced mentally. He may be a strong person, but it never feels good to be called boring or at least to be responsible for your wife’s boredom. He did his best to look tough, like this wasn't bothering him at all.

"Who is it, Beth?" he put all the emphasis on her name. He knew she hated it but he didn't really know why. And to be honest, at this moment... he didn't much care.

"Is it Phil? That fucking asshole from work? Is it?"

He let a few seconds go by, give her time to think of a lie she could push out of her mouth like a wet turd.

"Come on Beth, I thought we needed to talk... huh? Why aren't you talking?" He was beginning to raise his voice and he could hear her sniffling... her eyes filling with tears, her nose filling with snot.... his stomach filling with rage.

"Is... it... Phil?" he was growing impatient... he almost sure it was him. She had given that away when she didn't deny it. She just started crying, crying like a fucking coward... she had no right to cry.

She finally said something.... not much, but something. "Yeah."

He almost couldn't hear it, not over the whimpering this bitch was doing. He felt a pang of guilt hit him in the chest. He shouldn't call the love of his life, his wife of 15 years, his lover of 20 years a bitch... but then again, if at any point someone deserved it, this would be that moment.

"Phil, Phil fucking Lyon. Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I am sorry... I'm sorry.... so, so, sorry." she blabbered out... but he wasn't buying it. The pissed-off side was for sure beating out the hurt side at the moment and by the way he was feeling, he figured it was going to stay that way for a while.

"So, what did you call for - huh - to ruin my fucking life and what do you want, the house? The cabin.... do you want the fucking boats and snowmobiles. Do you want that shit so you and fat fucking Phil can all live happily ever after with the shit WE bought and WE used?" He now wasn't just yelling, he was screaming into the receiver. Squeezing the phone in his hand, he could feel the plastic cracking.

He couldn't believe how in the past fifteen minutes he had gone from worried to almost a murderous rage. Life was funny... well, actually, life was a bitch - but sometimes that bitch could really tell a joke or two.

"No, no, you... can, you can keep those things.... I just want one thing...," she was still blubbering, still crying for no fucking reason. She was stealing his hurt, his broken heart. But it wasn't for her, no not this time.

"Then what do you want?!" he said in the calmest voice he could muster up.

"I want that picture.... of me and Sammy, when he was just little.... you know the one above the computer. Could you please..... could you please bring that to me?" she managed to get all that in between sobs. "And please don't break it." she added.

He took a moment to think about it.... over all those years... all the memories, all the joy and the pain, all the things they had bought and lost... that is the only thing she wants? He shook his head, not saying anything, just listening to the stupid bitch continue to cry. She didn't deserve it - the only thing she deserved at this point was a bullet between the fucking eyes. Again, he felt guilt.... but this time, it wasn't nearly as strong... this time it almost felt like a good idea.

"Brent?"

She called out into the phone... he knew she could still hear him breathing, why in the hell did she need to call out his name? Did she think he handed over the phone to his neighbor and headed off to bingo? He was thinking. He couldn't make up his mind. And suddenly he had a moment of clarity. He had seen the light, so to speak.

"Yeah, no problem. Where do you want to meet?"

She took a second to think it about it; he heard her sniffling up the last bit of mucus.

"I can come by the house if you'd like?"

"No, I don't want you near this house ever again. I'll come to you. Where?"

Again she took a moment to answer; he was growing impatient with this conversation... impatient with her.

"Meet me at the park n' ride, you know the one right by the supermarket. I can be there..." she took a moment, obviously looking at her watch, the watch he had bought her. There goes seventy-five dollars down the drain. "Meet me there in 10 minutes."

"Okay. I just want to know one thing... where are you right now?"

"Just meet me there..." and she hung up. The click of the phone felt so permanent, he hated when people hung up on him. It was cheating, she was always doing it. Always cheating to win an argument. He hated that about her. He hated everything about her.

He clicked the off button on the phone and tossed it down on the counter. It hit with a hard plastic smash, the back cover flying off, spilling the guts. He laughed a little at this and then walked towards the bedroom. As he arrived in there, he looked around, how different it looked. How different everything looked. He didn't even feel the same. He felt like a new Brent. A brand spanking new Brent DuMont.

He made his way to the closet. It was full of all her clothes. All the clothes that weren't important enough to grab when she ran off to Phil’s or wherever she was. He figured it was Phil's house that she had made the call from. He wouldn't have known any difference, since up until this point... Phil had never called the house. Or at least not when he was there. Never had 806-577-1111 ever popped up on his caller I.D. - never.

Aw, there it is. He pushed the box full of old recipes off what he had been looking for, the gun safe, shiny and black, the thick steel cold to the touch. He laughed again. It was almost a perfect way to describe Beth right now. He turned the dial, and after three successful clicks – the lock released. As he pulled the door open, he saw three beautiful guns sitting inside. A .22 pistol, the one he had bought when Sammy was only 10. He remembered they had gone out and shot beer cans at the sand pit with it. The other two were actually for protection; a Glock 17 and a .45. Brent had the bought the .45 to protect the family- but it had scared Beth - so he had to go buy the less powerful Glock, which she felt she could fire if he wasn't around. He reached in and grabbed the .45. He felt the heavy steel in his hands. He pointed it at the back of the closet. He hadn't held it since he bought it, well over a year ago. He reached back in and grabbed a box of bullets that lay on its side in the back of the safe. He popped the clip out and saw that it was empty. He thought it over for a second and surprisingly, his mind hadn’t changed. He hadn't cooled off in the least. So, he grabbed two bullets and slid them into the clip. Then he popped the clip back in. He was rewarded with that amazingly powerful ‘click’.

He cocked the gun as he stood up. He pushed the safe door closed with his foot and slid the closet doors shut. He looked at the gun one last time, before tucking it between his pants and his back. He calmly walked out of the bedroom, closing the door as he exited. Then he walked into the office and grabbed the picture. He didn't want to give it up, it was a beautiful picture - but he had to. It served a bigger purpose now. It could no longer be a long-gone memento. It just couldn’t.

It was as if he had hit the rewind button on his life. Before he knew it, before he could talk himself out of it - he was in his car and within a few seconds of pulling into the parking lot. The picture sat on the passenger's seat. The only thought he had at that moment, was to hope that the park n’ride was empty. He knew it was unlikely, and he really didn't care. He was here to do something and come hell or high water - he was going to do it.

His red Dodge pick-up truck purred as he turned into the park n' ride. There were only three cars, a rusted up shit-box, a U-Haul and Beth’s car. He saw the other two were empty, and that Beth was sitting in the front seat of her car. Even from twenty feet out, he could see the nervousness. But he was suddenly rattled, for as he pulled in a little farther he saw another figure in the car; a heavy set man in the passenger seat. Phil, it was fucking Phil Lyon. Shit, he thought, I only brought two bullets. The last part he actually said out loud as he drove past their car and parked on the opposite side of the dirt parking lot.

He stalled, taking a moment to catch his breath. He hadn't expected this. He had only put two bullets in the gun. One for her and one for him. Now there was a third wheel. He almost had to laugh, it seems like Phil was actually ruining his plan B... just as he had ruined his life. Brent reached back and felt the gun still resting against his body. He took a deep breath and then grabbed the picture. As he stepped out of the truck he saw Beth getting out, he saw Phil reach slowly for his door handle, hanging back a little.

He couldn't believe the balls of this guy. Who actually comes along with the wife, while she is meeting with her husband - the husband she is cheating on with you? He clenched his teeth as he walked towards her, he was picking up speed.

She was caught off guard and took a step back. This caused Jabba the Hutt to get out of the car as fast as his fat ass allowed and start towards the soon-to-be ex-husband and wife. Phil’s intervention angered Brent and he abandoned his plan, instead reaching back and grabbing the heavy gun. He brought it out, pointing it directly at Beth’s stupid lying face. She screamed, the sound piercing his ear drums, but she didn't run. It was almost as if she could read his mind. As if she knew that had she had run towards Phil, for him to hold her and protect her, he would've put a hollow tip into her spine.

She just stood there shaking; he looked back at Phil and saw that he had pissed himself. It caused Brent to smile, to see the guy she had run off with after 15 fucking years... standing in his own piss- soaked pants. He would've liked to just shoot him in the fucking head for being such a coward. How could he lose his wife to such a pathetic man? It was only a gun - no big deal- we all die someday, he thought - just happens that two of us are going to go down that road today.

"What are you doing with a gun?" She was having trouble breathing or catching her breath. Either way, he didn't care; it'd almost make it easier if she choked to death. That would certainly fix his lack of ammo issue.

"Because..." he pointed it back at her face. She put her hands up, holding them over her face as she braced herself for the shot. He laughed. As though her boney little hands would stop a bullet from this gun. Shit, this gun had enough power to put a bullet through both her hands, through her head and hit that fat fuck behind her right in the gut.

"We, we don't need guns - we can handle this... like adults,” Fat Phil had the balls to actually say something. The nerve of this guy, he was really starting to piss Brent off.

"Like adults? Adults!? This is more like high school kids... so I'd suggest you shut the fuck up, or I'll put a baseball-size hole in that fat skull of yours." Brent pointed the gun at Phil for a second, just to watch him squirm. He quickly swung the gun back on the person who was most to blame. Beth.

"Why a gun...?" she repeated herself, beginning to whimper again.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" he stopped for a second, his arm began to shake under the weight of the heavy handgun. "You don't respect me... but, oh, you will respect this gun."

And with that, he lifted the gun up and pointed it at Phil. He pulled back the trigger and the gun exploded with an enormous bang - it sounded like dynamite. It sent a fireball towards Phil, who had no time to move, duck or even to think. The bullet hit him in the collar bone. There was a loud smack as the hot lead connected with the soft skin sending pieces of Phil’s shoulder everywhere... a spray of blood hit the hood of Beth’s car and along the dirt in front of him. He fell like a big man was supposed to, hard and fast slamming into the ground as blood continued to pour out of what was once his shoulder and neck.

Beth screamed, this time louder than the first time, almost louder than the gunshot that was still ringing in Brent's ears. As she turned back away from the bloody mess that was Phil, she had a look of horror in her eyes - she knew, oh yes she knew what was coming. This was no Hollywood blockbuster, there was going to be no long drawn-out scene where she convinced him she was sorry and he put the gun down. This was reality and he had to finish what he had started. There was no turning back. Tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheek as he began to cry, he was actually crying for the first time since... well, since he could remember. And he was doing it all because of this stupid bitch.

He raised the massive handgun and, nearly inaudibly, muttered, "Sorry!" Then he pulled back the trigger. The explosion was louder than the first and less accurate because he had closed his eyes just beforehand. The bullet slammed into her chest. He heard bones snap as the hot lead tore through her front and blew out her back. The spray of blood hit the grill of her car, and she flew backwards a few feet. Her small frame slammed down onto ground, the force causing her to summersault backwards as she hit the dirt. She came to rest just inches from Phil.

Brent opened his eyes. He was covered in blood; Beth had only been a few feet from him when he shot her. She had no chance, point blank range in the sternum. He wiped away his tears, leaving a large streak of blood across his face. He didn't care. Why should he? He stepped towards the two crumpled bodies. As he got close to them, he could see that somehow - Beth was still breathing'. Not for long he thought. He poked Phil's limp body with the barrel of his gun. Nothing, no breathing - no movement. He was definitely dead. He stood over the bodies, watching Beth's breaths get smaller and fewer. She took her last few gasps as he heard the police sirens in the distance. They'd be here in less than five minutes. He didn't have time to get in his truck and speed off, well, maybe he did - but he just didn't feel like it. He dropped the gun at his feet, covered in her blood and his finger prints.

He was going to jail. No question about it. He was going to prison for a long time, hell he was probably going to get the death penalty. He didn't know if the state had it, guess it didn't matter. Life in jail or the death penalty, it all meant the same thing. His life was over... and so was Beth’s.

He closed his eyes and imagined waking up, stretching his arm out and feeling her warm body. He slid his hands down across her stomach - he imagined opening his eyes and seeing her staring at him, smiling - he leaned over and gave her a kiss.

He could hear the police cars arriving slamming on their brakes – he heard the police getting out, heard them surrounding him - he even heard them yelling "freeze!" But he just kept kissing his wife.