John sat defeated in his father’s cigarette burned recliner, the sunset cast lined shadows across him as it dodged through gaps in the mini blinds. Failure. That is what I am. Leaving his elbows on the armrests he raised his right hand to rub his temple with a cold metallic finger. I’m not any better than him. I’m worse. Despair filled his every fiber, guilt shuddered in his throat, but no fear entered his eyes. Nothing entered his eyes. They had died long ago in precession to any act that he intended now. One reason. There is not one reason to stay. The clicks thundered in the silent room as he gently, deliberately drew his thumb back. Another sound invaded his moment. Music? John strained his ears to the subtle tones of a lonely flute that had wandered into his scene. The hollow notes struck an eerie chord. They resonated within John’s chest; spoke agreement to his every pain. Each grief doubled as the pain stricken song mirrored it. Slowly his hand dropped away from his temple and years of pain and apathy began to etch moist trails down his cheeks.

© 2004 Matt Naylor