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The only way to do it, is to do it.
This was the final thought that ran through George's mind. He pressed the .38 against his temple, smelling the cordite of burned rounds and feeling the cold circle of the barrel as he pressed it harder into his head. The only way to do it, is to do it
, he thought, and he saw his wife, he saw his children, he saw his job, his life. He saw the note he wrote sitting in front of him, and he thought, The Only Way To Do It, Is To Do It
He watched the sun go down.
And he pulled the trigger.
He turned his head and stared down his own barrel, seeing darkness. Zero point three-eight inches. It looked a mile wide, sitting an inch from his right eye. A vast, enveloping darkness; a harbinger of the darkness it brings.
He looked around the shithole he now lived in, an "efficiency" on 76th street. Paneled walls, Thrift Store furniture. A picture of his kids on the wall; one in some godforsaken country with the military, the other tooling around Boston trying for a degree. Next to that hung his twenty year letter from the chief of police, thanking him for his forced retirement.
No pictures of Helen on the walls; those were kept in a drawer. His beautiful wife, the girl that had once smiled at him with her head on his shoulder, who he had last seen throwing bottles at him, telling him to get the fuck out of her life, forever.
Thoughts of Helen made him find the bottle of Glenlivet's on the table. Another slug, and it still didn't erase the memories of what he'd lost. Never did, although he damned sure tried.
He lost his wife to his job. He lost his job to the booze. He lost his kids to...life, he suppossed, the natural progression of things. He again looked around his apartment, then he looked back to his thirty eight.
He was staring into the darkness again.
George Jr., called home on emergency leave, identified the body. His sister refused to come home, and his mother refused to come anywhere near her ex-husband, dead or alive.
At the funeral, he said a few words. There were some cops there and some guys who knew him from his local bar, all of whom seemed to know each other and all of whom had hit the bar early that day. George Jr. was the only one who was not swaying or hitting a flask as they shoveled dirt into his father's grave.
George Jr. was the only one at the funeral that shed tears that day, but those who had refused to come also felt the loss, of a companion and father. They wished that they had been better to him, but knew that they never would be.
The only way to do it, is to do it. How the fuck can I keep doing this? I lost my job, my career, the only thing I was good at. I lost my wife, the beautiful girl that once loved me. I lost my children, my own kids won't even talk to me. I've lost everything, I have nothing left, how can I keep going day to day? How can I face even one more day?
The only way to do it, is to do it. He looked once more into his barell, but only saw the end of a barell; a machine he knew well. He reached for his phone book. But, who to call, and what the fuck do I say to them? What will they say? Will anyone want to talk to me?
He put down the gun and picked up the phone, thinking,
The Only Way To Do It, Is To Do It.