A Bullet To The Head

A Bullet To The Head

As Peter Simmonds sat with the barrel of a gun pointed at his head, all of the
recent facts of his life, that had just come to light, flashed through his mind.

Sitting behind the four thousand dollar desk situated at one end of his plush
office, he had finally conceded that his life was falling apart around him.

To an onlooker, he had everything. Money. Cars. Various properties around
the world. Devoted friends and associates. A bachelor life-style, whilst being
married to one of the most sought after women on the entire continent.
Sat in a room that some would say, was a narcissistic shrine to his countless
endevours.
Trophies and pictures adorned every wall. With the 'piece de resistance', the
life-size picture of him cutting the ribbon, for to celebrate the opening of his
latest office block.
It was his largest construction to date, and the picture was no less larger than
life, as it covered the entire reverse of the door. But, who could blame him?
His life was one of success after success, following a bleak start in life.
Now. He had it all.

Or...So he thought. Until today.

So, now he sat. Gun in hand. Waiting for his wife to enter the room. The wife
that every red blooded male that had ever met her, wished was his.
Including his best friend.

It was earlier that morning that he had taken his wife's call.
For some unknown reason, her voice seemed cold and jaded. Not the same
voice that had dreamily wished for him to have a good day, as he quietly left
for work.
No. This one did not wish for him to have a good day. Nor any day for that
matter. The voice at the other end of this phone conversation, wished for his
days to end.
This voice no longer loved him. Hated him in fact. For all that he could give
her...and not.
All reason had obviously left her, as it was her that was barren. It was her,
that could not conceive naturally. But she had always blamed him for the
lack of chidren in their lives. It had always been easier that way.
For her anyway.
Secretly, life with her was unbearable, after he found out, when the extensive
tests came back, it was indeed her, not him, with the genetic abnormality.
He had turned to an old colledge buddy for help with such a delicate matter.
One of the perks of an expensively top class education. Many of his fraternity
brothers went on to become experts in their chosen fields. Stock brokers,
architects, lawyers, all manner of professions.
Including those with a private IVF clinic.
It was all done discreetly, and as such, mere client confidentiality didn't exist
between brothers.
After receiving the results, he made the decision to tell his wife that it was he,
that couldn't reproduce. The fault was all his.

That proved to be the worst decision of his life.

In the years that passed, he would often find that he had fallen asleep, alone,
while she'd gone out with 'friends' untill the early hours. Slumping back into
bed, with the smell and result, of another strangers affections, still about her
person.
She craved pregnancy. And if he couldn't provide her with the means. She
would go out and find someone that could.
He still never told her the truth of her condition.
If it made her happy, and kept up appearances to those around them, so be
it.
He didn't mind the facade. As, he too, had many 'friends', at his disposal.
He really didn't care.

Until the phone call earlier that day.

Strangers was one thing.
But...His best friend. That was another thing entirely.

So, now he sat, gun to his head, waiting with an unnatural patience. Waiting
here for her arrival. The woman he'd loved for most of his time spent on this
earth. Whether it was a pretence at love during the later years, it was still a
subtle form of love, deep rooted, and true.
Now. He just wanted it all to end. He wanted her to witness, first hand, the
consequence of her actions. A life she once knew, snuffed out in the twitch
of a finger on the trigger.
He moved the barrel of the gun slowly around his face. Maybe the eye? Left
or right? He shifted it around slightly to the temple. No. Not dramatic enough.
Lowered it down to the mouth, and smiled. The thought of shooting through
that wall of veneered sentimentality, made him snort with laughter. The gun
almost going off prematurely. He removed his grip from the weapon for a
second.
Whoah! Not yet, he thought to himself. Too soon.
He wanted to see her face after all. Through the door...and blam. His face
exploding in a flurry of shrapnel.

Over...The end.

The phone rang shrilly on the desk before him.
It brought him out of the twisted day dream that he had found himself in,
with a jump. He lifted the reciever.
'It's your wife, Sir.' The voice on the other end said. 'She's on her way up
now.'
Smiling. 'Excellent, Simon. Thank you.'
He put the phone back in its cradle.
It will all soon be over.

Getting up from his seat, he put the gun to his mouth, listening and waiting.
Then he heard it. His secretary's voice, followed by that of his wife.
The intensity of the moment was growing by the millisecond.
He saw the handle to the door move slightly, as if in slow motion.

The noise was deafening.
No one heard the thump of the gun, as it hit the carpet, as Peter Simmond's
hand fell to his side.
All seemed deathly silent for what seemed like an age. Then it was bedlam.
The screaming echoed off the walls, like a siren of shock and dread.
The room was full of an odd smell...And the blood.
Oh, the blood. It covered the walls, like a Jackson Pollock nightmare.

That was when he peered through the hole.
The hole in the back of the door, where his face used to be. Now just
splintered wood.
He smiled down at the faceless figure dressed in the clothes he provided.

Now, it was over.

Now, he could begin again.