Chapter 1

Joshua Holland took another swig out of the whiskey bottle as he sat in a slouched position on the ratty old couch in his apartment. He closed his eyes as the bittersweet poison flowed smoothly down his throat. He used to find the taste of alcohol repulsive, but he had grown to like it for the mere fact that it took his mind off of life for a while; which was something that lately he had become sick of. His once happy life was now dark and filled with sadness. Depression now had control of him. It had latched on to him and then, like an infectious disease, had spread until it almost completely consumed him. He often tried to find places of joy that he had locked away in his mind, but every time he went searching he was only met with defeat. He would try to find the happy memories, but it just seemed like they had been erased from his mind. Like all that was left was pain.

With his mind once again returning to it's dark places, tears began to form in the corners of his eyes; which were already red from him wiping tears away earlier in the night. He leaned forward on the couch and used his free hand to wipe his tears away before downing the last bit of whiskey from the bottle in his other hand. As he finished it, he wiped away the wetness from his mouth and beard, which had grown in roughly from not having shaved at all, before setting the bottle down on the old wooden coffee table in front of the couch. The coffee table was littered with several other empty bottles; three of which he had finished earlier that night. With both hands now free, he moved them both up to wipe away the tears from his eyes before taking a deep breath and sliding back into his previous slouched position.

He turned his head just enough to look over at the alarm clock on the end table next to the couch.

2:34 A.M.

He moved his head back and again took a deep breath. He wished more than anything that he could just go to sleep. Just get one night of peaceful rest, but that was impossible. Anymore if he fell asleep it wouldn't take long before the nightmares started. They had started out small. Just little ones here and there, but then they got worse. Worse to the point that he would wake up screaming. In desperation for sleep he had tried taking sleeping pills, but they didn't work for long. The nightmares just grew stronger. He tried to fight back by taking more of them, but it would only last a short while before the nightmares slowly found their way back. Finally he had stopped taking the pills, and for the most part sleeping altogether. So now he spent his nights drinking himself to sleep, or drinking himself into oblivion, scared to face reality while being sober. But sometimes it seemed like even the alcohol couldn't numb the pain.

Tears once again returned to his eyes. He leaned forward and began to wipe them away. After he finished wiping his eyes he took a few deep breaths; trying to fight back the tears that were still trying to come out. He opened his eyes and looked up at the empty white ceiling.

“Where are you God,” He muttered. “Where are you?”

He sat there for a minute, with tears again beginning to run down his cheeks, hoping that God would answer him. That he would show up. Hell, he'd be happy if he slapped him right across the face! At least he would finally have gotten his attention. But nothing happened, and the longer he sat there in silence, the more hope he lost; and the more he realized he was truly alone.

“Figures.” He finally muttered in a sarcastic tone.

He had went to church his whole life and this is what he got for it!?

He shook his head and wiped his runny nose and swollen eyes; trying to refocus his mind.

As his eyes opened he spied his father's old .357 laying on the coffee table. Every night, for quite a while now, he had been taking the gun and putting it to his head; wanting to pull the trigger. But something always stopped him. Something inside him always screamed out at him that he was making a mistake, but he wasn't hearing that voice tonight. All he heard was silence.

He reached forward and picked up the pistol.

His father had carried it in Vietnam during the war. As he looked at it he thought about how many men had lost their lives to it?

How many men, like his father, had left their families to go to war only to end up losing their lives to this gun?

What would his father think if he knew that his gun would one day take the life of his son?

He then realized that his mind was wandering again. He blinked a couple times before shaking his head and flipping open the cylinder of the gun.

He rolled the cylinder with his fingers; making sure each chamber was filled by a cartridge. He slowly ran his fingers over each bullet, feeling the cold brass, wondering which one would take his life.

After making sure that it was fully loaded, he spun the cylinder and flicked his wrist to snap it back into place before moving the barrel under his chin. He felt the cold steel of the barrel touch his skin and it sent a shiver down his spine. He was going to do it this time; he knew it. As he sat there with the barrel to his chin and moved his finger to the trigger and then visions started flashing through his head, but they weren't painful this time, they were beautiful visions.

Beautiful visions from when his life was happy. Visions of his family. Visions of old friends. Visions he thought he had lost. Visions of her.

As soon as she entered his mind he froze up. He felt his body slowly begin to shut down as soon as he saw her in his mind.

She was wearing a white dress and walking in a field of tall grass. Her hands held out letting the tops of the grass gently brush her as she slowly strolled through it. Her golden brown hair was flowing in the wind; tossing like waves in the ocean.

His muscles finally began to relax as he watched her. Then she smiled at him, that smile that leveled him every time he saw it. It was if she was silently telling him that everything was going to be alright.

He looked into her eyes and instantly felt vulnerable. It was as if she could still see right through him. He was never able to hide anything from her. He was her favorite book that she had read cover to cover and completely memorized.

As she walked away from him the vision began to fade until she was gone and he slowly returned to reality. He gasped as he took his finger off the trigger and slammed the gun down on the coffee table. He jumped off the couch and ran to the bathroom.

As quickly as he could, he flipped up the lid of the toilet and threw up what little food he had eaten today; which was only a small bowl of Cheerios and half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

He took a few deep breaths after it had all come out and took some time to clear his head.

“What are you doing Josh?” he asked himself as he hung his head over the toilet.

This had never happened before. Usually he would sit there for a couple hours crying and cursing God before finally managing to fall asleep. Was this her trying to tell him something?

After making sure that everything had come out he grabbed a piece of toilet paper and wiped his mouth. He then rose and began to slowly walk back to the couch. As soon as he returned to the couch his eyes found their way back to the gun. For a second he thought about what it would feel like to have the bullet cut it's way through his head. Would he feel anything? Or would he even know that anything had happened. How long would it take them to find his body? He wasn't close to any of his neighbors in the apartment complex. He had barely spoken to any of them since he had moved in almost a year ago. The closet he had come to having a conversation with one of them was when he asked a lady how to work the clothes washer in the basement; and that was about eight months ago. Would anyone even notice if he was gone?

What would happen? After that bullet cut it's way through his head and his body dropped lifeless upon the ground, would that be it? He had once believed that there was a loving God and that when you died you'd go up to heaven and spend eternity with him, but how could a loving God let all of this happen? All that he had done lately was curse God; that is, if there even was a God. As these thoughts of God returned so did his anger. If God was real then there was no better way to get back at him than to end his life. Besides, he had nothing left to live for anyway.

“Screw it!” He said as he reached down and picked up the gun before retuning it to it's former position with the cold steel barrel touching the bottom of his chin. He took a deep breath and cocked the hammer back so it was ready to fire. He took a couple more quick deep breaths to prepare himself for what he was about to do.

“I'm sorry honey.” he said as he closed his eyes tight and squeezed the trigger with every ounce of strength that he had. But the gun didn't fire; it just clicked. Shocked, he dropped the gun to the floor and started gasping as if he couldn't breathe while his heart beat faster than it ever had before. He ran his hands over his head as he leaned back on the couch and started crying.

“What have I become?” he asked himself through the tears.

“What would she think of me?”

Deep down he knew what she would think of him. She would be ashamed of him. What had happened to the strong and fearless man she had married? The man who had chased away all of her fears and past worries and fought for her like no one else ever had.

He hurriedly leaned forward and started rummaging through the empty bottles; hoping that maybe just one had a sip of whiskey left in it. Eventually he accepted that there was none left and, in his frustration, he grabbed ahold of the end of the coffee table and flipped it into the wall. The coffee table was cheaply made and had seen its fair share of years; it broke into several pieces when it slammed into the wall and left the drywall damaged. He then slowly slid down into a seated position on the floor with his back leaning against the couch.

He had put that gun to his head every night for almost six months and now that he had finally worked up the courage to pull the trigger; this happened. Could nothing in his life go right? All he wanted to do was die! To cease from existing on this miserable excuse of a planet any longer. So why couldn't he just die!? All of a sudden the vision he had had came rushing back to him. The past year of his life all he had found was sadness and depression, especially late at night when he was alone in the darkness with nothing but his thoughts. So why on the one night that he was actually going to do it would he feel happiness again, and not to mention see her!? With his mind beginning to wander he shook his head, as if trying to rid his mind of her, before he stood up to walk to the kitchen.

When he arrived in the kitchen he grabbed a paper towel from the roll by the sink to wipe the wetness from crying away from his face. He then turned the faucet to cold and splashed some water on his face; hoping that that would clear his head. He stood with his hands on either side of the sink as the cold water trickled down his face and listened to the sound of the water spill out of the faucet. At this point it seemed like breathing was all he could do. He remained at the sink for a couple of minutes clearing his head before he turned off the faucet and returned to the couch, but this time he kneeled down in front of it. He folded his hands and took a deep breath before looking up at the ceiling.

“God...” he started to mutter, “I can't do this anymore. All I want is relief from the pain. I just want to be able to live again.” He paused for a second and questioned what he was doing. Why was he praying? Was he really going to pray to the God he no longer believed in?

“If you really are there, and the stories aren't just a bunch of fairy tales, then I need you to show yourself right now. This is my last attempt. Help me.”

When he finished the prayer he laid down on the floor. He was worn from the stressful night and could barely keep his eyes open. He opened his eyes just long enough to spot the gun lying on the floor.

“How did I let it go this far?” he thought to himself.

As he stared at the gun his anger began to return to him. He picked up the gun and threw it across the room. As he laid on the floor his eyes became heavier and heavier. He tried to fight it because he knew what would happen if he fell asleep. But no matter how hard he negotiated with his body it just couldn't stay awake any longer. He battled as long as he could, but eventually he gave in and drifted to sleep.

Reviews

[wordman]

this sounds and reads like the makings of a great book !

[Steve Clark]

How very potent, very real, very honest.

[Erik Daniel]

Thanks Stephen!