Why, Father?

Dedicated to my Father. Not the best when it comes to writing, but certainly therapeutic.

     Casting through sheer curtains, moonlight highlights contours of a gun.  The man whose finger hesitates on the trigger with the barrel pressed against his temple stares at the photograph in his lap.  Tears blur the faces behind the glass as they streak his face and descend, splashing in a growing pool that collects at a gold rimmed corner.

Pleas along with relentless pounding come from the other side of the locked door, yet he is deaf to them and again considers the photograph.  It is all he has of them now; three little girls and their Mother.

You drove them away.  Did you think she’d put up with it forever?!

He shakes his head as a fresh batch of tears surge forth.  This is his fault.  He could have been a better man, husband and Father, yet his anger and fists got the better of him.  Now he must live with the consequences or…pull the trigger and end it.

End it!

A shot rings out and his body falls limp across the mattress, the photograph sliding free from his twitching hand.