He couldn’t sleep so he slipped out of bed and walked silently into the other room. He wondered if he could ever sleep though a complete night again. It seemed like forever since he slept more than a few hours without waking up.
Was he going crazy?
He frequently imagined himself curled up on the floor of some padded room staring up at the rubber tiles while his mind fell deeper into the abyss of insanity.
It all started when his brother committed suicide—he was in the next room when he heard the gun go off and those blasts haunted him whenever he put his head down to rest.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
How could his brother possibly get off three rounds at such close range? Did he hesitate in those last seconds? Was he hoping that all three shots would miss?
The police told him that his brother had only loaded three bullets into the chamber of the 9mm Glock. Perhaps he thought there were just two bullets. Was the third a surprise?
During the investigation the Police had asked him several time how many shots he had heard.
Three he said over and over.
“Three damn it, I told you one hundred times—THREE.”
Now that same gun rested in his hands as he dreamed of falling asleep, an eternal sleep from which he would never wake—death is like sleep isn’t it?
He missed his brother and the pain was unbearable.
His eye lids fell heavy like a broken mast on the high seas, he could not determine whether he was asleep or awake. There was an overwhelming conflict in his subconscious where the lines had been erased and his waking moments felt like dying—what he imagined dying was like.
The last thing he could remember was the sensation of cold steel in his hands and a feeling of total exhaustion.
(To Be Continued)