Short Fiction: "The Voice Message"

-- Featured in Farmhouse Magazine, November 2005

“Hey it’s me. I feel kind of strange leaving you a message like this, but I just needed to tell you something. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I…I saw an old friend today; I doubt you remember him, a college friend of mine you met once before we were married. Anyway, we talked for a long time and he made me realize how stupid I’ve been. I love you, I want us again. I’m sorry this is hard on the phone. Call me as soon as you can, please. I love you.”

He could feel the weight of the gun in his hand, like some deadly extension of his arm, cradled perfectly by slender fingers wrapped around the ergonomic grooves of the handle. He was quite happy with the purchase. The Glock 25 was great at the range – it shot well without as much recoil as some of the larger calibers, and held fifteen rounds in the clip. He’d finally decided to go through with it and get his own after trips down to the firing range became a weekly if not bi-weekly occurrence. A buddy at work had gotten him into shooting as a way to blow off some steam and it had been his therapeutic release from all the stress that had suddenly erupted in his life. It was as though he could bottle up all his pain into the chamber of the pistol, encase it in brass, and fire it out into oblivion. With every report of the gun, every shudder of the weapon as it fired, he could feel the tightness in his chest and temples dissipate. By the time he’d shredded through a few targets he felt like a new man. The firing range was his solace. It was his church.

His eyes carefully scanned his new toy examining the intricate crevasses in the slide as though they were a series of artistic engravings rather than actual letters and numbers spelling out AUSTRIA or .380 Auto. He released the clip into this left hand and felt the weight fall from the gun as he did so. It was strange; this instrument of plastic and steel now seemed so harmless and light by itself, as though it would fall to pieces if he were to suddenly hurl it against the wall. But as he loaded the clip, packing shell on top of shell till the magazine was full, he recognized that this was no play thing, but a weapon that could take life.

Their marriage had been on the rocks for some time before they actually separated. It had been an awful way to end things – the screaming, the rage, the hatred in her eyes. Often that last image of her burned in his mind more than any thing else. As she walked out the door that final night, she paused and gave him this look as if to say this is the last time you’ll ever see me, so take a damn good look, John. She stared right though him and he remembered feeling like his heart could seize at that moment had she willed it. In the months that followed he called her every few days (in his mind it was only about once a week) in an effort to somehow reason with her, to talk his way out of the separation. He left messages on her machine that seemed to last an eternity. He would pour his heart out to the plastic box next to her phone, pleading with her, telling her he loved her over and over, begging. There was never any response. And at some point, he just stopped calling. Instead he’d curse her name and try desperately to hate her as much as she seemed to hate him. But it was no use. He loved her now just as much as he had the day she walked out on him, maybe even more. He didn’t quite understand it himself, but there seemed to be nothing he could do. He figured at some point he’d just crack and scowl declaring her a bitch and really mean it, but that day never seemed to come.

One time when he was at the range, on one of his really bad days, he pictured her in front of the target, looking as she did that final night, all the hatred in her being mustered into that burning glare. He clenched the trigger of the pistol and watched as the side of her head exploded into a shower of scarlet, streaming from her temple. He immediately dropped the pistol and felt like he was going to be sick. He stumbled back from the stall and found his way outside in an effort to get some air. When he got to the parking lot he felt the bile rise up in this throat and he doubled over and breathed in fully to keep himself from vomiting. After he’d composed himself momentarily, he got his things from inside and left at once driving numbly and on instinct back to his apartment. As soon as he’d walked through the front door he fell on the couch, curling up, and nearly crying. He hated himself that day. He wanted to die that day. Because in his head had killed her, he had wished death upon the one person he truly loved. How could he love her if he wanted her to die? He couldn’t have really wanted her to die. No. He decided that evening, that something had gone terribly wrong in his brain for that split second when she appeared on the opposite side of his gun. To wish death upon her was to wish death upon himself. She was everything to him.

Since that day he’d come to terms with the possibility that he’d probably never see her again, never touch her cheek, or hold her flaxen shrouded head close to him ever again. But at the same time, he never gave up the hope that things would work out. He’d decided that as long as he always loved her and never gave into or attempted to cultivate that hatred for her as he once tried, then, on some level, she’d always be with him. She’d always be part of him.

He put the Glock back into the new lock box he had bought along with the pistol and went out to pick up some supper. It was funny how things that were so customary to ordinary life such as eating dinner now seemed an exercise in loneliness and solitude. He wondered where she was and what she was eating. He shook the thought off quickly. There was no need to think of her now, and he wanted to put her from his thoughts for some time. He hopped on the parkway and drove listlessly letting his mind wander as he looked at the rust orange of the trees that lined the road. He cracked his windows and let the smell of dry, cool autumn engulf the cab of his truck and, for a moment, felt free from the weight of life.

He arbitrarily choose an exit and decided to stop at the first place he saw that looked as thought it might have some decent fare. As the steered the vehicle off the parkway and came back to reality a bit, he realized he’d driven fairly far from his apartment. But no matter – he needed to get out of there for a while, and this drive out and away from the city was putting him in a better mood. He had chosen a good exit. It was a small town he had come to many times before, as a child. The main street was lined with trendy but quaint little shops and eateries. The sun was staining the sky into a pallet of pinks and warm gold while on the opposite horizon the cold purple of night shimmered, waiting to creep across the heavens. When he had left he had done so with the intention of picking something up, but now he was tossing around the idea of finding a book buried somewhere in the truck and enjoying a quiet meal alone at one of the little cafes. He was scoping a few places, driving slowly up the main drag. Then his heart sank.

It was her. He was sure of it. At this angle he could only see her from the back, but he knew. She was sitting with someone. A man. He was about the same age and they were involved in some deep talk – they seemed to be getting along too well. He was holding her hand. Did he know him? No, certainly not, although he looked familiar. His arms and legs felt suddenly useless. He pulled down a side street and parked. He rolled down the window and tried to breathe deeply, but his lungs would quake after the first few seconds of breath. He was nauseous, light headed, confused – a hundred feelings at once. He wanted to go back and see her again, but with that man there – could he bear it again? He jumped back on the parkway, numb, mind racing.

How long had it been going on? Had she left him for this guy? Did she love him? Surely she looked as though she might. It couldn’t be true. He looked in the rear view mirror to change lanes and suddenly realized he was crying. It began to come together in his head: The reason she’d stayed at her sister’s place so many nights toward the end. Her comparisons of his actions to those of her friend’s husband. Her sudden interest in getting back in shape – spending countless hours at the gym. The explanation for why they’d stopped sleeping together the last few months. Why she had never returned the calls or messages. She’d been seeing him all this time. The feelings were building upon each other, his mind packing thought on top of thought till his head was full. His temples began to ache and the tears were burning his cheeks as they rolled down onto curled lips and gritted teeth. Somewhere on the way home the anguish turned to rage. A cold but loaded rage.

He strolled mechanically into the apartment, his body working on some primitive survival mode. He felt weightless as he moved up the stairs, floating through the front door and into the bedroom. He knew why his legs had taken him there. Synesthesia gripped his mind. It was like he could see his heart beating through his eyes in white flashes at the corners of his vision. He thought of her – her glare on that last night. Then he pictured her with the man at the café, happy, holding his hand, lying next to him in bed. How could she have said forever John, and then left him for someone else. All this time while he had been living in torment, she had... – it wasn’t right, they belonged together. She was part of him. If he couldn’t have, no one would. He slid the lock box out from under the bed and opened it. He pulled the weapon out of its steel coffin, resurrecting it. He pushed the clip in and cocked the side, drawing a bullet into the chamber. He was floating in his own body detached from the room, from himself, from anything. He unconsciously patted his pocket for the keys to the truck and finding them turned to the window. Night had fallen. The air was crisp and cool, the smell of autumn flowing in through the curtains. The phone rang and but he didn’t move a muscle – what did it anything matter now? The machine picked up and he suddenly came back to reality. His throat clenched as the voice spoke to him through the answering machine. He collapsed to the floor now, again out of his body, tears flowing down a trembling face. The message ended and he sat staring out into the blackness of his window. This time, he knew there had been no mistake – he could have done it. He would have. She was everything to him. He could feel the weight of the gun in his hand, like some deadly extension of his arm, cradled perfectly by slender fingers wrapped around the ergonomic grooves of the handle.

--Chris Carsten, 2005