The Gift of Hurt

I poured myself another drink and remembered that there was a shotgun shell in the top drawer of Matt’s bureau. As a sense of relief engulfed my body, I headed for our bedroom. After rummaging through Matt’s bureau, I came up empty. I started a search of the house that spanned five rooms and dozens of drawers and cabinets. "There’s got to be a shell somewhere in this Goddamn house," I muttered.

In a moment of coherence and what I perceived as a weakness, I thought of Ann and called the Psychology Clinic hoping to find her there. No one answered. I desperately needed to talk with her. In retrospect, that was the first time in my life that I deliberately reached out to someone for help. After admonishing myself for trying to call her, I resumed searching for the shell.

If I could find it, I would be in control of my destiny. I would become my own comforter, my own executioner. Thoughts of my family and friends were as distant as the tiniest star on a clear summer night. After the futile search, the house looked as if it had been ransacked by burglars.

While fixing another drink, I plotted a second plan for the next day. That plan would entail using my lunch hour to purchase shells from the gun store just minutes away from our home. Before buying the shells, however, I stopped at the local bar for a shot of courage. After downing the drink, I drove across the street and nonchalantly entered the gun store. I asked for shotgun shells and was shown many different kinds. I saw a shotgun that looked similar to Matt’s and purchased a box of compatible shells. I hid the shells in the glove compartment of my car under some oil receipts.

When the clock struck five, I dashed out of my office and headed home. When I pulled into my driveway, I was relieved because no other cars were there. I would be alone. I grabbed the box of shells, went in the house, and fixed myself a drink. I slipped one of my favorite CDs into the player and listened as Richard Harris sang "McArthur Park." I listened to another selection by Harris that was poignantly titled "In the Final Hours." I picked up the box of shells, shotgun, and my drink and sat on the floor in back of the sofa in the family room.

I opened the chamber of the gun and inserted the first shell. When I inserted the second shell and tried to pull the bolt shut, it would not close. I tried again and again, pushing and pulling, harder each time, but the bolt would not close. I removed the shells and tried inserting them in a different way--still no luck.

"You bought the wrong shells. You f------ idiot," I snarled to myself.

I decided to initiate a final plan. With that plan I would take Matt’s shotgun to the gun store and ask the clerk to assist me with the purchase of the correct shells. As an added backup and to prevent a foul-up like the day before, I would con someone into showing me how to load the weapon.

I waited until it was dark and everyone was asleep. I lifted the gun and gently placed it in the trunk of my car. Step one accomplished.