stains

Charles

A man, wearing a blue sweater and old slacks, walks into a library and quietly situates himself into an armchair nestled cozily into a corner beneath a leaning, ornate wooden lamp. 

Withdrawing from his sweater a small silver pistol, he places the barrel delicately between his white rows of teeth, carefully tended to with years of early orthodontics and latter years of flossing in front of the mirror while his wife prattled on about his pension plan. There was never enough in the plan when the paperwork came every month but at the same time, somehow, the deductions from his check were always too much. Barbara was never satisfied. 

The metal felt warm against his tongue as it rolled over the round opening of the barrel. Soon, an explosion in the metal tube would propel a small bullet, barely half an inch in length when laid on a bare palm, straight through the back of the man's head. It would be an impossibly quick end. A mess to reckon with once all was said and done, but an end. There would surely be a terrible stain left on the armchair. No else might want to sit in it ever again. It would take a lot of scrubbing and hard chemicals to get all the bits of blood and brain matter off of the red and yellow crochet carpet. It was a pretty carpet. They might just throw the whole thing out which would be a shame. The chemicals they used to clean it might damage the color of the rug, too. 

He knew all about these things. He had taken to watching lots of true crime shows and the clean ups were fascinating to him. Whole crews of people were paid to come in and take care of the nasty messes people like him left for them. It must be a lot of work, he'd think. They must have to think about every little detail of the crime, to make sure they got everything. In another life, he'd have liked to be an investigator. Looking into the minutia that made up people's lives, and lies. He liked details. There were too many small and seemingly insignificant reasons to list as to how this scene came to be unfolding in the local library, however. It was too much to think about anymore. Better to just blink once and let it be over. Both of he and Barbara's boys were grown and miserable. Married to women just like their mother, who pestered and whined and whimpered about their weekly spending allowances. No need to worry or raise them anymore.

The gun felt right in his hand. More right than holding Barbara's hand had felt for a long time. She wore a green jade bracelet now that he couldn't place in his mind. Where did the bracelet come from? She never wore things like that before. Gaudy, she'd have called the bracelet years ago. Cheap. And Barbara didn't like cheap. But the bracelet had been a gift, and Barbara did like gifts. Very much. And although he didn't know this, the bracelet had been a gift from Don, the deacon who led the women's ministry at the church he and Barbara had attended for 26 years, this year.

Calgary Hill Christ's Community Church had a long and alliterated name but a small congregation - less than 100 congregants in total. The Sunday service usually had about 70 folks in attendance. There were only a handful of leading parishioners, like the head of the youth group, a young woman in her mid thirties with green highlights in her hair who the young kids adored and the older folks didn't. And sweet Carol, the great-grandmother who dutifully played the organ every Sunday and then sometimes on Wednesday nights as well. And Deacon Don, who led a private bible and life class study for the women of the church. It used to be Don's wife, Claudia, who ran the women's study, but she had a terrible accident last year and died. 

It really was a terrible accident. She'd fallen down the steps of their old Victorian home and laid at the bottom for hours before Don came home and found her that way. He'd been at the church, of course. She'd been rushed to St. Joseph's where she lay, broken and babbling, badly confused but starting to make some general improvements for nearly a week before another freak accident! Her oxygen tube caught a kink and she suffocated right there in her hospital bed. Don was there, though. A nurse was there. It was impossible to tell what or how it had happened. She just coded. Went blue and that was the end for poor Claudia. All of her family from the Carolinas flew up to Ohio for the funeral. He had accompanied his wife to the services and Don had played the part of the grieving husband pretty well.

Played the part?

Why had he thought that? Wasn't Don grieving at Claudia's funeral? Well, how could you really know how how someone acts when their spouse dies so suddenly. His crime shows had taught him that. How would Barbara grieve, he wondered. Would she?

And he pulled the trigger.