Gone Fishing

He had dwelt in his sorrow ever since. That was the day she had been killed. A drunk driver hit her as she was taking his car to the shop. He couldn't help but think, what if I had done this myself like I said I would. Since that day, every ounce of him had been spent preparing for this day. He quit his job, sold his house, gave up his possessions and relegated himself to this place. He had been living here for the past three years relishing each painful day. He was a member of the walking dead, a soul in purgatory scorched by the weight of a thousand feelings bearing down on shoulders not meant to bear a burden. There was no solution. For all his smarts, for all his skills he was a man broken; life had grabbed him firmly and snapped him like a toothpick. There was no where to hide. He pulled from his closet the last remaining possessions of his former life. He had spent the last three months preparing for this day. It was the fifth anniversary of her death and exactly 25 years since they had first met. He undressed leaving his clothes in the corner. He pulled out an ironing from the closet. As he closed the door he observed his naked body in the mirror. He turned his head to the side as if to wonder what happened. Then he smiled. The years had taken their toll. Where had once stood a formidable being, now stood a man of greater means, with a belly engorged with sins and hair sprayed white with meaningless importance. He pressed his pants and his shirt. It was methodical, just like the rest of his life: first the legs on the inside, then the outside, then the rest check for the perfect crease. Only once the pants were complete and covering his lower half would the ritual begin anew for the shirt. first the sleeves, then the back then the front. Every detail minded, every crease perfect. No errors were made. He looked one last time in the mirror as he went blindly through the motions of wrapping the noose around his neck. It was her favorite tie and, of course, his as well.

He went to what was supposed to be the kitchen and washed clean her glowing smile. He placed the frame on the desk and tied his shoes. He sat down and tried to think what he had spent all his life doing. Nothing but emptiness. Empty promises made to empty souls in an empty world. His life was a stage and this was his curtain call. He pushed the button, red just like in the movies. He laughed. He closed his eyes and imagined the warmth of her touch, the softness of her kiss, the smell of her hair. He moved gently around her imaginary being smiling. He reached in the drawer and pulled out a piece of paper. He pulled a pen from his pocket and began to write: My name is Jim and this is my story. Word by word he completed his picture. Always sparing but including detail to just the perfect degree. He reached the end of his Knight's Tale, leaving us with a few everlasting words: Love is an inadequacy hidden in the deepest part of our souls. It is a person that longs for years long forgotten, an animal that lusts for redemption. Love is what creates us, love is what destroys us and without love we cannot go on. Love is God and our lives its sad tales. It is almighty, it is the savior and the destroyer, the creator and the created. Love is forever. Finishing his preparations he sat back down in his chair. Amidst the raucous of the late evening traffic let loose the silent whimper of a Colt 45. Everything around him burned. In life, he could not burn the bridges to the past, but in death he had won. He was at peace and love, happiness, fear and anguish were relics in the museum of his life. The only thing he left behind was a solitary work of art tinged by the flames that engulfed his small apartment, but rescued by his planning. Sirens wailed in the distance, but smiling he drifted gently into sleep.