The Point
flash fiction by Evan Guilford-Blake
Phil Patterson had reached that point in his life: He was 73, had been divorced for twenty-four years, was estranged from his two children and, last week, his dog had died. He had physical issues as well: Walking had become a chore, even with bifocals his vision was terrible; so were his teeth, to the point where eating was more pain than pleasure. The few friends he had were distant and his diminishing eyesight left him unable to drive except to buy food — mostly soup — and necessities. He was, thus, a prisoner in the empty fifty-year-old house on which there remained forty thousand dollars due on the mortgage.
He took the gun from its locked box, sat with it at his desk with a cup of tea, and typed a brief note into the computer. He printed it out and laid it on his desk, reread it for typos (although he shook his head: Why should it matter?) and, finding none, typed a text message to his daughter into his cell phone: Jackie, You’ll probably want to call the police. I’ll be in the bathroom and set the phone aside. He’d send it at the last moment. He wanted no panic-stricken, pleading phone calls to interrupt.
He took another sip of the still warm tea, looked briefly out the window and into the dim, late-morning, autumn sunlight, and turned off the computer, watching the monitor fade to black. Apt he thought. He took a deep breath. “Time,” he said, quietly.
He finished the tea was about to stand up when his landline rang. That happened two or three times a week; usually it was a recorded solicitation, but his phone was the old-fashioned kind: No caller ID, no voicemail. It rang, you answered and you talked into it, listened to whomever was on the other end, said goodbye, hung up. Or you simply didn’t answer it.
This morning he chose the latter, but he listened to it ring. Eight times, twelve, twenty. Whoever it was was persistent. Once, he reached for the receiver, then took his hand away. Even if it wasn’t a sales call it was still, at this point, irrelevant. Unless it was (and he smiled) someone calling to tell him he’d won some lottery, some contest, and he was going to receive a few million dollars. A few million dollars might change his mind: He could move somewhere where there was sunlight and people with whom he could mingle, maybe make some friends. He could hire a nurse, and a chauffeur and a housekeeper, do as he chose to do and ignore the impediments that, now, impaired his choices.
The phone kept ringing. Then it stopped.
Phil sighed. Oh, well. He pushed himself to his feet, centered the note on his keyboard, picked up the cell phone and the gun, and walked slowly through the house, checking the lights. They were all off. He nodded.
He unlocked the front door, opened it and looked outside. It was cool and overcast. He nodded again, closed the door (leaving it unlocked) and went to the bathroom. He got in the tub, sat with his back to the taps -- he was right-handed and the splatter would hit the wall, not the floor, since he was leaving the curtain open -- set the gun on the rim of the tub and held the phone in both hands. He reread the message, and immediately pressed “Send.” The phone responded by telling him the message had been sent. He nodded, turned it off and set it on the floor beside the tub.
He sat in the silence reviewing his past and his present. He felt sad, he felt bitter. He’d felt sad and bitter, and happy and carefree and energized and filled with wonder, throughout his life; none of it had made a difference. He’d arrived at that point anyway. He wondered a long moment what would come after. Then he picked up the gun, glanced at it briefly, raised it to his temple and closed his eyes.
He took the gun from its locked box, sat with it at his desk with a cup of tea, and typed a brief note into the computer. He printed it out and laid it on his desk, reread it for typos (although he shook his head: Why should it matter?) and, finding none, typed a text message to his daughter into his cell phone: Jackie, You’ll probably want to call the police. I’ll be in the bathroom and set the phone aside. He’d send it at the last moment. He wanted no panic-stricken, pleading phone calls to interrupt.
He took another sip of the still warm tea, looked briefly out the window and into the dim, late-morning, autumn sunlight, and turned off the computer, watching the monitor fade to black. Apt he thought. He took a deep breath. “Time,” he said, quietly.
He finished the tea was about to stand up when his landline rang. That happened two or three times a week; usually it was a recorded solicitation, but his phone was the old-fashioned kind: No caller ID, no voicemail. It rang, you answered and you talked into it, listened to whomever was on the other end, said goodbye, hung up. Or you simply didn’t answer it.
This morning he chose the latter, but he listened to it ring. Eight times, twelve, twenty. Whoever it was was persistent. Once, he reached for the receiver, then took his hand away. Even if it wasn’t a sales call it was still, at this point, irrelevant. Unless it was (and he smiled) someone calling to tell him he’d won some lottery, some contest, and he was going to receive a few million dollars. A few million dollars might change his mind: He could move somewhere where there was sunlight and people with whom he could mingle, maybe make some friends. He could hire a nurse, and a chauffeur and a housekeeper, do as he chose to do and ignore the impediments that, now, impaired his choices.
The phone kept ringing. Then it stopped.
Phil sighed. Oh, well. He pushed himself to his feet, centered the note on his keyboard, picked up the cell phone and the gun, and walked slowly through the house, checking the lights. They were all off. He nodded.
He unlocked the front door, opened it and looked outside. It was cool and overcast. He nodded again, closed the door (leaving it unlocked) and went to the bathroom. He got in the tub, sat with his back to the taps -- he was right-handed and the splatter would hit the wall, not the floor, since he was leaving the curtain open -- set the gun on the rim of the tub and held the phone in both hands. He reread the message, and immediately pressed “Send.” The phone responded by telling him the message had been sent. He nodded, turned it off and set it on the floor beside the tub.
He sat in the silence reviewing his past and his present. He felt sad, he felt bitter. He’d felt sad and bitter, and happy and carefree and energized and filled with wonder, throughout his life; none of it had made a difference. He’d arrived at that point anyway. He wondered a long moment what would come after. Then he picked up the gun, glanced at it briefly, raised it to his temple and closed his eyes.
About the writer
Evan Guilford-Blake writes prose, plays and poetry for adults and children. His work has appeared in almost a hundred journals and anthologies. His plays have been performed internationally and won 46 playwriting contests. Thirty-nine are published.
His published long-form prose includes the novel “Animation” and the award-winning short story collection “American Blues,” for adults; and the novel “The Bluebird Prince” for middle-grade students (and their parents). All are available on Amazon and other e-retail sites. Evan and his wife (and inspiration) Roxanna, a talented jewelry designer and business writer, live in the southeastern US. |