Original Flash Fiction - Literary Cover inspired by Whiskey Lullaby
The door slammed, forcing the wind chime from its rightful place to the weathered floorboards lining the porch. He gathered the shattered glass in his hands, fantasies of its restoration running rampant in his mind. He carefully recovered the shards of glass, pinning his hopes to its reformation; if he could fix this then he could fix them. He collected the garbage bags she had filled with his belongings from the front yard and packed them into the trunk of his car. He sat idling in the driveway, the car in reverse, his foot on the brake, waiting for any indication that she had changed her mind. He watched the lights disappear one by one until a dark house stood before him and he knew, at least for the moment, her decision was final.
A lifetime later her decision remained, their relationship was as beyond repair as the wind chime fragments he collected from her doorstep twelve years ago. He fingered the colorful glass that lay on his nightstand; traces of blood lined the edges, the result of drunken attempts to put it back together. He no longer deluded himself into believing the wind chime was the key to reconciliation. The memories it held produced no restorative powers, they only served as a means to torment his broken heart. He filled his mouth with enough whiskey to turn his cheeks into liquid packed balloons and let it sit for a moment before allowing it to escape down his throat. He wiped the few drops that had trickled down his chin with the back of his hand and repeated the process. It wouldn’t be long before he reached the unconsciousness he so desperately needed, it was the only place where the pain of his heartache couldn’t reach him; the only place where he didn’t love her.
“I don’t love her, I don’t love her,” he argued, raging violently against the final truthful moments before the blackout.
“You’ll love her until you die,” taunted reality.
“I’ll love her ‘til I die,” he repeated and finally he understood. Unconsciousness only provided a temporary reprieve from the nightmare that his life had become. More than a decade had passed and he was still the same train wreck he had been the night she put him out and despite his most valiant efforts, he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind. Until tonight.
Justifications left his thought process as congested as rush hour traffic, forcing him to utilize the only explanation readily available to him. He scribbled his thoughts on the back of the old telephone bill he found tucked away in the drawer that held his handgun. He kissed the bullet that would pry his heart from her hands and loaded it into the clip. He put the gun to his head and took a deep breath, he squeezed the trigger with everything that he could muster but found himself unable to press hard enough to discharge the weapon. He laid the gun on the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. He alternated swigs and suicide attempts until both the bottle and the clip were empty.
About Me
I am not musically inclined. I can't sing. I don't play any instruments. I just love songs.
Certain songs stir something in me, something that requires expression.
I can't sing but I can write. My pen does what my voice cannot, cover a song and do it justice.
To read the first two chapters of my literary covers novella click the link - http://bit.ly/SteemItEE