Photo by Sylvester Sabo
IN THE MOMENT
Devastating. Devastated. Utter devastation. Each word a different meaning dependent upon use. I could, for example be devastatingly beautiful; blue eyes, perfect nose, dimples, and legs to die for. But there I go, lying to myself, avoiding the blatant truth that lies before me.
The fact is, I’m a hairs breadth away from death. So, indeed I am devastated, in all senses of the word. Knowing that I am slipping off towards the afterlife brings me to this split-second of thought and leaves me feeling quite literally mortified. And to be clear, my eyes are brown.
Everything seemed to be going so well. The divorce papers had come through. I’d been awarded the head curator role at the gallery. And I’d finally met the real love of my life. Then along comes an inadvertent bullet, causing the rear of my brain to decorate my Baroque plaster coving with something resembling a Jackson Pollock.
Deadness. If I weren’t so indisposed, I’d Google it. I would search for revelations on the afterlife, for forgiveness, and for any hidden opt-out clauses. Gloria, my cleaner has unwittingly emptied a round into my head from my Glock’s single stack, 10-round magazine; seems this has taken us both quite by surprise. While cleaning my bureau, she has come across the poorly placed, yet rather oversensitive semiautomatic pistol my father gave to me. That man handed out a lot of things but never out of love. He could have avoided the beatings. He could have left me alone at night. Some people just shouldn’t be blessed with children.
My mind throws up images of you, my daughter consumed with grief. The subconscious goes into overdrive, with scenes of you during your childhood; first steps, first bike, first love. You’d be wearing your eyeliner just how I showed you, not that two-bit fluorescent eyeshadow you so insist on wearing. I don’t deny the shame that your life has not turned out for the better.
Frank. What will he think? How will he react? What will he sing at my funeral? I think about that special moment by the lake. I swear, I’ve never seen a grown man sob like that. He won’t get past the first chorus without his bottom lip starting to tremble.
Some saw him as a bit of a flash at the bar. Quite le Bon Viveur by all accounts. I spent a good year after the divorce waiting for his now ex-girlfriend to step aside. And when I saw my moment, I grabbed it like the last champagne flute on the tray.
"Hello," I said, "is this seat…taken?"
I realized it was somewhat cheesy, but this 45-year-old woman had no time to waste.
"It is now," he said.
"I’m Ziggy," I said.
"I bet you are," he said.
I could tell we were both up to speed with the innuendos.
Within moments he was pouring us both a claret and in turn I let him know I meant business; laughing at his jokes, smiling at his every quip, and making sure he saw the ringless wedding finger. Clearly, we were both smitten from the outset. We’d set our hopes on a life in Bora Bora. And now they’re dashed. Never would I have imagined that one day it would be my claret dripping down the walls and down onto my white shag pile carpet.
Look at Gloria, standing before me with that gun in her hands. Poor thing. The shock must be awful. Whether she will call the police, make a run for it, or finish the cleaning before she reaches for her phone - God knows I pay the woman enough.
I don’t deny my other regrets; I could fill a rolodex twice over. Undo what I overdid. I wish I’d worked less, stopped my father touching you, not slept with your boyfriend. I’m not talking about a doting mother-daughter relationship. But fixing what caused you to block me from your life would be a start. My list of shame goes on. I wish I could.
My that’s a lot of blood I see on the wall. The human body never ceases to amaze.
I always saw myself passing the way your grandmother did. It would start with a cirrhosis around the liver that would eventually expand around other vital organs until my very last breath. I deserved it. I should have been there for you. I see that now.
I recall the nine-year-old me when he broke my clavicle. I never cried back then, not once. I just stared him down. A feeling of defiance despite the pain. That showed him.
I hope I don’t soil myself now. Not in these white jeans.
You made me so proud that day. You spent an age painting that butterfly. I know it came out all wrong when I said what I said. Look, if I could do it all again, I would. I guess I’ll need another lifetime just to smooth things out between us.
If I could, I’d call you. I’d tell you how sorry I am. Talk about all the things I’d done to hurt you. Find a way to start again. I’d ask if I could be someone else, somewhere else, someone close to you. Most likely you’d tell me that everyone disappears in the end.
Is that you, my darling? I always swore I’d never mollycoddle you. That I would always let you fall rather than holding your hand. Never wrap you up in cotton wool so to say. I see that now. It’s all so clear. I’m in you. I’m in the moment.
The Author
This is the first piece of short fiction submitted and accepted by Huddlestone Phillips with Unlimited; such is the way he likes to massage his fragile ego by trying to convince himself he is a short story writer. His aim was for this piece to join a handful of successfully published short stories, including as finalist in the Bellingham Review 2021 Tobias Wolff Award for Fiction.
