Here's my next "prompt," for those of you that care...I just had to free write about "Eternal Love," so this is what I came up with. Keep in mind, I don't check for punctuation or anything like that, I just write until I feel like I can't write any more without stopping. I hope you enjoy it, or hate it. Either way, let me know what you think....
Lorraine set the book down on the table next to her sweet tea. The glass was sweating a puddle in the oppressive Southern summer heat. Pushing herself from her rocking chair on the porch, her arthritic knees crackled and popped like gunshots. She carried her slight, 79 year old frame, waddling from the pain in her joints, but head still high like the Southern Belle she’d always fancied herself to be, through the screen door into the house. Glancing at the photo albums spread out on the floor in the living room, she strode purposefully into the bedroom. She had already opened the safe before she had retired to bed the evening prior, fearing she may not have had the nerve to open it when the time came. With more cacophony she bent her weary frame, reached inside and pulled out Henry’s Glock-19. It had been a gift from his captain after he retired from the force. She couldn’t remember him ever having fired the weapon in the 22 years since. Before picking herself up, she made sure it was loaded, pushing the clip in with a clack. Limping slowly, she made her way through the hall into the kitchen. Searching the “junk,” drawer, she found the silver lighter emblazoned with the SDPD insignia. Gun in one hand, lighter in the other, she made her way into the living room. Her eyes began to water as she looked at all their memories strewn about the room. Pictures of their wedding, the honeymoon they shared in Yellowstone, the years Henry spent in uniform, all taken from the protective sleeve of their individual albums and tossed about without care. Seeing how many photographs were piled on the rug she realized just how long she and Henry had shared their lives together. She choked back a sob. Surveying the mess, her eyes came to rest on the wedding photograph, framed, sitting atop the mantle Henry had built for her some 50 years previous. She thought what a poetic finality. Reaching up, she grabbed the silver frame, wiped a layer of dust from outer edges, and slammed the glass against the hard wood of the fireplace. Shattered glass littered her bare feet. She pulled the old photo from the remnants of the frame, and then let it drop to the floor. Holding the ancient, almost brittle picture she took a deep breath and set the gun on the edge of the mantle. She turned toward the mess on the floor, taking in every last memory. A smile crept from the corners of her mouth amidst the tears. Flipping open the lighter she flicked the flint, a small yellowish flame leapt to life. She touched the flame to the corner of the old photograph and watched for a few seconds as it smoldered. When the flames had eaten half the picture she dropped it among the others lain across the floor. She waited as the smoke began to billow up from the small fire in the living room. Satisfied the fire would catch the rest of the house; she turned and grabbed the gun. Turning her back on the past, now engulfed in roaring flames, she made her way to the porch.
As she walked through the door, she looked at Henry sitting in his rocking chair, directly next to hers. She could smell the shit that overflowed from his colostomy bag, a side effect of the chemotherapy. She could see the small line of drool dripping from his chin to rest in the puddle already growing on his shirt, a side effect of the stroke. Her once strong, smart, funny husband, now reduced to just a husk of a man. She shuffled up behind him, rubbed his patchy egg shaped head, and kissed him softly behind the ear. She was sure he didn’t even recognize she was touching him. After the chemo and the stroke he hadn’t moved on his own, or spoken a single word. She only had the hope that he knew how much she loved him. Lorraine placed the gun at the base of her husband’s skull, gripped the handle with both withered hands, and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening. Even the cicadas ceased their chirruping. Lorraine placed her hand on Henry’s forehead and pulled his head back into an upright position. She wiped his blood on her long flowing skirt. She walked around the small table, picking up her sweet tea, taking a long voracious drink, before setting it back down. She lowered herself back into her chair, ignoring the protestation of her joints. She looked at the book on the table, reached for it, and brought it to her lap. She found her weathered, much used bookmark, and opened the book to the passage she had underlined many years ago. She began to read, John 10:28 "And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish; neither shall any pluck them out of my hand." She placed the gun in her mouth, teeth biting down on metal. The heat from the barrel against her tongue, she could taste the bitterness of her own flesh burning. She reached over, grabbed her husband’s lifeless hand in hers, closed her eyes, repeated the verse and went to meet her Henry once again.
Free writing to keep the juices flowing.
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