And Then Acid Fell

(Second Story - Third Chapter)

For years, Goran had gotten away with a lot of things: stealing, racketeering, smuggling. He had a rap sheet that stretched for miles, if only a written copy of it existed. There were many times in his life that he could've turned over a new leaf, but it always came down to a choice – a choice he almost always got wrong.

    Night, day; it all looked the same to him. Light dim, dark dim; it didn't make a difference since the traffic still refused to move.

    By his estimation, the roof of his car was all but kaput. That was the trouble with the old cars, he thought, they didn't have the streamlined design that allowed the water to flow freely. He was, after all, an expert appraiser of automobiles, at least at one point in his life.

    He fumbled around the glove compartment and found a loaded gun that wasn't all too familiar to him, several unpaid parking tickets, and the car's manual and registration. He was starving, having had nothing to eat for what seemed like an eternity. He grabbed a couple of tickets, tore off a bunch of pages from the manual and ate them for dinner or breakfast or lunch.

    The rusted parts of the frame had given up for quite some time, and the leaks have been trickling down at a rapidly increasing pace. Unfortunately, his knowledge of cars was not extensive enough to provide him an explanation as to why the whole thing hasn't caved in on him yet.

    He thought for a second if the dream he had some time ago would have been a better reality than the one he was living in now – the coffee cup reeked of urine and the trunk gave off a hint of an ungodly, putrid odor. The windows, now fully fogged up from the inside, did not afford him the luxury to scope around how his neighbors were doing.

    The rain continually drummed on the cars and the asphalt, while Goran banged his head on the dashboard to serve as an accompaniment. The screams were gone, but the winds howled and hurtled on, with no signs of slowing. The air grew thicker but his head seemed lighter.

    From time to time, he flirted with the possibility of using the gun he found. Right through the head. He'd already sampled quite a few delicacies but he still had no idea what a bullet tastes like. Truth be told, Goran had always been the first out the door at the first sign of trouble, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it, but he drew the line when it came down to taking his own life.

    “Hi, baby,” he whispered, grinning, as he placed his drained phone against his ear. Mucus ran down his nose, as he desperately tried to suck it back in. “I might not be able to make it home tonight.” He shed a tear, the first time in his life that he would not dismiss it as a gag reflex or an irritated reaction. “Don't wait up,” he stuttered, trying to make it through a whole sentence without breaking down.

    He took one last sip, closed his eyes tightly and then jammed the barrel of the gun in his mouth.

    He thought about his children – how they would grow up thinking that their father was a good for nothing cretin who abandoned them every chance he got.

    He thought about Heidi – the last time they talked was more of a physical shakedown for him than the stalwart champion. I hope you get what's coming to you, you good for nothing piece of shit. I hope that sweet piece of ass you're with comes to her senses.

    He thought about his wife, Norah – her lips, her hair, her eyes. He thought about that move she does, that thing where she puts her legs up behind her head and … he shuddered and bit on the gun, his tears flowing more freely. The taste of the metal and the gunpowder did not measure up to the taste of her skin. Most of all, he thought about all the times she had his back even though she shouldn't have. She was always there even when the whole world turned their back on me.

    He slowly slid his finger on the trigger and kept it there for a while. He rested his forehead on top of the dashboard, then back on the headrest – he just couldn't decide. With his free hand, he stroked the dashboard, like he did whenever he tried to wake Delilah up, and then cupped it on top of the hand that held the pistol.

    A cold wind, which came with the decided fate, passed over him. He perspired profusely, as he tried to steady his hands. He didn't want to think about it all too much, just the same old routine of running from problems he didn't have the capacity to face. He knew his limits, and he surpassed his, hours or days ago. Quitters never win; good thing they always called me a loser.

    Goran sat silently, trying to shut off every thought that raced through his mind. One by one, the moments faded, like speeding cars on an ideal expressway. This was the better alternative, he thought for a moment, much better than just fading away from existence.

    He felt his heart beat rapidly, then slowed down until he couldn't hear it anymore. Silence. He couldn't even hear a pin drop. Silence. He couldn't hear anything … not even the sound of the rain. Silence?

    His eyes widened, and he took his finger off the trigger and the barrel out of his stiffened mouth. Goran cranked open the door but it didn't budge. The acid must've messed with the lock. He kicked the door back and flung his body out of the car, diving back-first on the jagged asphalt.

     He couldn't believe his eyes; in his despair, he got lost in his thoughts and failed to notice that the, once, unrelenting downpour has ceased for quite some time. The darkened expressway seemed to resemble an automobile graveyard – the cars looked like zits scattered across the freeway's face. Goran got back to his feet, slipped on whatever top in the luggage fit him, and holstered the gun behind his soiled khakis. He pursed his lips, scrunched up his nose and narrowed his eyes. Without words he lifted his feet and walked back towards the city.