No one ever told Martha that when you stick a gun in your mouth, it’s almost like eating an extra-frozen popsicle. Which, of course, is a funny thought to have moments before ending your life.

But there it was—one popsicle-sized barrel lodged against the roof of her mouth, making her cheek bulge out like a squirrel with one-too-many nuts. She hadn’t expected to feel self-conscious in her final moments, but a quick glance in the mirror proved otherwise.

She shook her head and steadied herself as the moment she imagined quickly became uncomfortably real.

Her jaw hurt, and not that jamming a gun in your mouth should feel comfortable—it wasn’t like she was ordering room service at the Holiday Inn—but in that moment, she wished it was. One last comfort before the great goodbye.

She pulled the gun out, stretched her jaw, then shoved the barrel back in.

The footstool beneath her creaked. She wobbled slightly, toes curling over the wood, trying to steady herself as she focused on the gun.

But before she could pull the trigger, the question that haunted her came back again.

Why?

Why did she owe so much money to the kind of men who showed up unannounced with crowbars? Why wouldn’t her kids pick up her phone calls anymore? Why had their voices gone stiff and distant over the years? Why did this—this—seem like the only solution left?

But deep in the marrow of her bones, she knew the answer.

It was her.

It was always her.

And this hurt the most.

Hurt like the realization that every road led back to her own failures, her own choices, her own missteps.

Hurt like the weight of a life spent running, dodging, drowning in bad decisions.

She was trapped.

Too afraid to live. Too comfortable to die.

Her fingers trembled around the grip as her finger found the curve of the trigger.

And then, Martha counted down. THREE—TWO—ON…

The damn stool shifted.

Her balance tilted.

And suddenly, she was weightless, flailing, and falling until she bounced off the ground.

CRACK.

The gun smashed against her teeth, sending a white-hot bolt of pain through her skull. She reeled back, gagging, blood filling her mouth.

“Awww, damn it!”

She doubled over, yanking the gun from her mouth, one hand clamped over her jaw. Something small and hard rolled across her tongue. She spat it into her palm.

A tooth.

A blood-soaked tooth.

Tears blurred her vision.

She couldn’t even do this right.

And this set her off.

She kicked the stool barefoot and immediately regretted her decision.

“Ahhhh… fuck! My fuckin’ toe!”

The gun slipped from her fingers, hit the floor with a heavy thud and—

BOOM.

A crack tore through the silence.

Martha shrieked, arms flying over her head. Immediately, a hole the size of a grapefruit appeared in the white wall while plaster rained down like snow, sticking to the tears on her cheeks. Her heart rammed against her ribs  and she sank onto the carpet between the couch and the coffee table, shaking.

The sobs came hard as she tried to drown out the world. But instead, they only seemed to invite memories.

The first time she held her son, his tiny fingers curling around hers.

The nights she spent cleaning offices, the hum of a vacuum drowning out her exhaustion, just so she could buy them new shoes for school.

Her daughter’s face twisted in disappointment when she didn’t show up for dinner—again.

The soft knock of tiny fists on a locked bathroom door. Small voices, afraid.

“Mommy, are you okay?”

And then…

The doorbell rang.

Martha blinked. Her head snapped up, broken from her trance.

She pulled herself off the floor, legs weak, hands still trembling, her breath slowing down. She wiped her face with her sleeve and began the walk upstairs.

The bell rang again.

Martha shuffled toward the door, dusting herself off, expecting to finally see the man who demanded the money she owed. Her hand hovered over the knob.

She swallowed hard and opened it.

But what she saw wasn’t the man.

It was her mother, standing there for the first time in years.

Martha froze, her breath catching in her throat. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t know what to say.

 

Please like, comment, share, and tell me what you think! This was a scrapped opening for a book I was working on. I’m more excited about my new idea, but I don’t want to let it go to waste.

Never miss a story: Tonysbologna | Anthony Robert | Substack