Beginnings and ends are alike in both loneliness and humility. Through each, one finds great meaning and possibility. Through each, a man is met with an idea of himself.
To most, beginnings are a time of ignorance, where the absence of knowledge provides a veil of optimism, and endings, which are rooted in history and hindsight, are a time of dross and melancholy predicated by it's mere existence.
That dross, that murky time between the now and the then, is where Stella found herself that morning.
An abyss of mementoes and memories occupied her mind, much like his belongings occupied their home.
She awoke, as usual, to the sound of silence , the deafening sort that haunts souls and shakes spirits. She flung off her quilt and slid out of bed and in front of the full length mirror that stood, man like, next to her wardrobe.
She examined the person in front of her and winced at the beguiling figure staring back at her. Her morning face told tales of a restless night before, while her hair, in all it's red beauty, was tied back while it's floppy fringe covered the three freckles on her forehead and the protruding yet stern beginnings of a black eye. The crimson and violet shades that decorated her right eye were in full bloom, alive with the vigour of last nights events. She looked at herself and whimpered, ever so slightly, ever so desperately.
As the sun crept through the curtains, illuminating her hazel eyes in the process, she shrugged a shrug of determination and defiance. She was sure. She was ready.
She walked over to the chest of drawers, crouched and opened the bottom drawer. With minimal fuss, she reached in and wrapped her right hand around the plastic grip. She paused and let her thumb scale across the familiar grooves of the etched plastic. Her index finger stroked the trigger of the 92FS Beretta handgun. It all felt familiar, the warm warmth, the assurance, the cold curves of the handgun. It was time.
She removed it from the drawer and made her way out the bedroom and towards the stairs. Her mind was raced, flashbacks of last night sent tremors through her mind, stirring feelings of angst and outrage. As she walked down the stairs, basking in the sunlight that streamed through the widows of the floor below, she cocked backed the gun, allowing her fingers to dance it's jostling rhythm and her face that was once filled with fear and humility, lit up ,with nothing more than a smile, a grin of expectancy and ownership.
She made her way into the sunlight below, basking in it's freedom and it's opportunities, it's ability to signal both ends and beginnings. Beginnings and ends. That's what this was about. She reached the last step, turned and heard the growing chatter of an adult male and the bumbled speech of a toddler. She held the handgun above her head, like 'the sword of Damocles' and walked towards the kitchen. With each step, the noise grew and with each step, she walked further away from the morning sun, all the while, lowering the gun so its nozzle appeared as sone extension of her chest.
It was time.
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