Pitter Patter

A day in the life.

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The barrel had been pressed so firmly against her head that even if she didn't intend on pulling the trigger, it'd have probably been enough force to drive into her brain. The echoes of the gunshot would've echoed the transience of her memories. She could smell the bitterness of the gunpowder permeating her nose at that moment, it's musky vapour filled every cavity and became her. She stood there like a tear fading away, like a cloud drifting across the ocean, and as though the only way she could've given any weight to the world was to have dissipated in that second. What had brought her to this she had not known, but no matter how; she was at this moment and this moment was her. Trying to collect all the thoughts and assemble them into some form of chronicle was useless now. People had spent too much effort trying to figure out how they had got into the situations they were in rather than dealing with the situations they were in. If this was done, she thought, then nobody would ever spend any time wondering how they got there because they would already have known. What to do now? The pressure on the trigger had been there for so long and too long that it seemed inevitable that it would be pulled, but the strength to squeeze rather than pressure escaped her now. It was as though this moment had been designed to bring her to the moment, to this realisation. She was meant to just be standing there with a gun to her head. Not to pull the trigger. Not to end her life. Not to shatter the future. But simply at this moment to be as she was, and she found great solace in this; she had found meaning in the moment. But that did not let her come away from it. She was still there of course. And she was growing tired of this fractured way of thinking, of her thoughts coming and going and the broken messages her mind was giving her, and then long periods of silence in her head. It kept going. And going. Going on and on. The barrel grew heavy and slipped down her cheek bringing disappointment and relief. The letter had seemed like a good idea now. It delivered the message she wanted and she felt now that she didn't have to resort to this, whatever "this" was. She slumped down, and felt that that was typical of her behaviour, and typical of exactly what she expected it to be - cliched, dramatised, and melodramatic. The restless frame of her body stirred. Mentally exhausted, the gun fell from her hand, the single round still in the chamber and still begging to be released and find its purpose. Purpose replied, that it would not be found today; a sickening game of cat and mouse that would only have ever had one outcome and it was not destined to be known. Church hymns resonated in the distance. Bells traded blows. Warm air flowed through the windows. A perfect moment imperfect. The bells stopped and the clock struck the hour, hymns ceased and the wind reversed. There was no warning of it, it had stopped and that was it. Rain began its soft pitter patter against the glazed windows; a solemnly overcast melody to conclude the piece. The orchestration had been fitting for the scene. She had imagined it like a piece from a movie. Except when the credits rolled and the music died down there was no end. The television wouldn't just go off and as would she. There was still to face what she had left him.
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