brushed the trigger. It was set on C. I saw his shocked face before I hit the floor. Heard everything go so quiet. Heard him stoop over me. Heard a low, whining drone, like an engine idling, as if he wanted to cry but couldn’t. Then he walked slowly to the end of the kitchen. A proper druggy does things in a prioritised sequence. He put the syringe next to me. Even asked if we should share. Sounded good, but I couldn’t talk any more. Only listen. And I listened to his slow, heavy footsteps on the stairs as he left. And I was alone. More alone than I have ever been.
The church bells have stopped chiming.
I suppose I’ve told the story.
It doesn’t hurt so much now.
Are you there, Dad?
Are you there, Rufus? Have you been waiting for me?
Anyway, I remember something the old boy said. Death sets the soul free. Sets the fricking soul free. Does it? Damned if I know. We’ll see.
