Room 41

For what seemed like an eternity, Frank Mailer could do little else but hold the lifeless body of his wife Karen in his arms, and stare into her unblinking pale green eyes. They had shone like emeralds before, but now, the brilliance of them had gone, the spark of life in them having been extinguished by a cold-blooded killer, the soft glow of her skin paled now, the color desaturated by death settling in over her features.

Her lips, once rose red, were now tinged a cold gray. It was peculiar to him, here he was, staring at the corpse of the woman who had been his lover, his best friend, his wife - And yet, even now, he could not accept this - Reality had melted away into a shadow world for him, so like a dream quickly forgotten upon awakening. Karen had been his dream come true, and now he felt himself sinking into a nightmare of realization - Those beautiful green eyes would never again shine as they looked up into his own in the moon lit darkness of their bed. Never again would he feel her touch, electric and soothing upon his skin as they made love.

Never again, he vowed - He would not rest until her death had been avenged, the heinous theft of her life paid in full, and he intended to extract that dire payment. Tears flowed down his cheeks in rivulets, clinging stubbornly to his cheeks before finally succumbing to gravity, and falling down in slow motion, splashed explosions as they met her pallid face.

Frank bent down, his lips brushing hers for what he knew to be the last time, The absence of that familiar magic there was a catalyst, igniting his rage, but not enough to incinerate his reverence for the woman he loved. with gentle fingertips, he closed her eyelids, the resulting effect even harder to bear than looking into her faded green eyes, because now, she appeared to merely be sleeping, yet he knew that she would never wake. He gently laid her body back down on the bed as he had found her, rose to his feet, wincing as blood flowed back into his legs, pins pricking his calves as he stood wearily.

Sullenly, he took one last gaze at her laying there on their bed, then turned, and opening the drawer of his nightstand, he pushed aside a small pile of mail, and grasped the cold weight of the .45 that had lain untouched at the bottom of the drawer for near two and half years. He lifted it, appreciating the weight of it, marveling at how the gleaming piece steeled his resolve.

He pulled back the bolt, checked for the chambered shell that he knew would be there, found it waiting, glinting in the lamplight, as if winking conspiratorially at him, waiting, ready, ...promising death. This bullet now bore a purpose, the name of Karen's killer invisibly inscribed on it, and it waited now, ready for him to deliver it to the killer's heart.

Tucking the firearm into his waistband, and covering it with the tail of his shirt, he left swiftly through the front door, returning five hours later, two bullets lighter, his clothes spattered with the blood of vengeance. He stumbled into the bedroom, and crashed to his knees beside his wife's body. Taking her hand in his, her cold stiff fingers wrapped around his palm, and he whispered, almost a horse choke - "It is done", raised the gun to his temple, felt the piece tick with his pulse, then pulled the trigger, joining her in silent repose.

Six miles away, in a dirty motel room with dated wallpaper that peeled away to expose dingy paneling beneath lay another body, bullet holes in heart and head, and a puzzled look of surprised acceptance on his face, as though he had been surprised by Frank's entrance as he burst in the door, wild eyed and out of his mind with grief and anger, guided by there by some unknown force. Frank had said nothing as he stepped closer to the man he knew to be Karen's killer. He let the gun do the talking for him. Before the man's heart had even a chance to beat in fear, Frank had pulled the trigger, and pierced it with that first gleaming bullet.

The man had been knocked back by the force of the shot, his back slamming against the wall, smearing blood over the orange and brown patterned wall. He had looked up at the man's face, and just before the final bullet punched through his through his forehead, seared through his brain, and smashed a large hole in the back of his head before burying itself with chunks of his brain into the rotted sheet rock, he had seen the slug, chased by fiery flame out of the barrel in slow motion, and he perceived it to have teeth, bared and glittering, hungry for him.

And then all was black in room 41 of the San Padre motel. Frank closed the door behind him, returned to his car, and drove home to die with his wife.

Reviews

[Lydia Shutter]

And all this inspired from one word? You are so very talented! Of course Frank sought revenge against Karen's killer...and he would have it no matter what the consequences! The final sentence leads the reader to believe Frank will go home to kill himself...no longer willing to live without Karen. Powerful story line! Written so well. Lydia