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Chapter Two

My reflection doesn't ask for pity, nor for condolences or even a helping hand. In times of need, the typical human being will seek comfort from those that surround them. Families gather at dinner tables, funeral homes, churches, a small get-together now and then. Everyone will congregate, flocking to the one who seems to have lost the most in tragedy. They'll be there, giving their one hundred percent. Food donations, monetary contributions, charity events. All of this right down to the basic shoulder to cry on will be offered. On the first day of said tragic event, the numbers will be large. Faces of the regulars, of those were only a product of convenience and even some that could be considered strangers. They all offer their presence in some manner. As days go by the numbers dwindle, slow but sure until the person that they meshed as one for is alone yet again.

This is human nature. It helps the healing process along, many to push the burden wagon rather than the recently lost and hopeless going it alone. Deaths victim isn't truly the person taken from the world, but the many that were left behind. You're put on a speeding train on a downward spiral. Having loved ones nearby; they're the brakes on each wheel. The more brakes are applied, and the longer they are applied, the slower and better ride to the end. Lose it all too soon and the spiral down can be an outright crash.

This reflection - a poor one in the dingy window - is all I have. No friends. No family. My father just took his life a mere two feet away and told me beforehand that my mother is gone too.

"I had to kill her, son. I had no other choice." His words hung in the musty air. "I couldn't watch her suffer any longer."

The man who raised me from a child. He changed my diapers. Taught me how to count and to spell my name. It was him behind me as I pedaled that bike for the first time sans training wheels. I told him not to let go as he replied that he had me and that I was doing great. With each press of the pedal I grunted, moving faster and faster, the handlebars wobbly but under control. When I turned to make eye contact, the stare that said "I'm doing it all by myself, Dad!", he wasn't there. Without my knowledge he stopped to admire his son doing it on his own. All the practice that he felt had paid off escaped on broken hand and eye contact. The bicycle went into a death wobble, the hand grips wrenching themselves free. This spun the front tire perpendicular to the direction of travel. Like a wall suddenly sprouted from the ground, my Huffy came to a halt and flung me face first over the top and into the ground below. A bronco bucking its rider.

Whatever the illness is that's spreading, my father believes it to be that bicycle I failed on so many years ago; something that can be overcome. And once again he has left me to fend for myself. I only hope the results share some similarities.

Moving in closer to the window for a better look at myself, I am appalled at what I see. Before eating a bullet my father informed me that I was sick. This is now evident in the semi-transparent reflection. Around my eyes are dark circles similar to his. My lips seem pursed, though relaxed. Crows feet form at the corners of each eye. I look to have aged a few years, but know better. I haven't been in a coma. Or have I?

The lack of emotion is what cuts the deepest, though. Dad shoots himself close enough for me to smell the cordite immediately afterward, but I don't turn to hysterics? I don't break down and cry, mourning the most tragic thing a child can go through no matter his age? My stone heart refuses to crack under the pressure? A numb mind fighting to right the puzzle, not knowing which piece to place first.

The room smells of copper mixed with a slight twinge of gunpowder that lofted above us as the smoke rose from the barrel. The gun still rests in his hand. That same hand that held the seat of my bicycle. They gave so much to his family and now they've taken away. I kneel beside him and uncurl the fingers. The revolver has a six shot capacity, but houses only one empty shell. The barrel is still warm to the touch. I tuck the weapon away into the small of my back.