Aileron

When he looks about him, there is nothing to see that is worth a damn. Nothing worth saving, if he's honest, in the face of Mama's onslaught. He pours another large slug of XO into his not-quite-empty glass and slumps back into the rich leather, wondering just how drunk he'll have to be to go through with it.

The revolver lies silently reproachful on his desk. He can't see it from where he's sitting, but he can feel its weight, the way it presses against the dark wood, the minute warping of spacetime around it. Its gravity. He can smell the lovingly-tended, newly-oiled metal.

The gun has served him well over the years. His hand remembers its touch like that of a cherished lover. Back in his prime, in his glory days in post-colonial Africa, he would spend whole days holding it, brandishing it, firing. Sometimes indiscriminately, sometimes with almost surgical purpose.

The gun has served him well over the years.

Just once more...

The brandy is a welcome fire in his throat. He has become so used to these luxuries. These little distractions. He has needed a lot of distractions these last twenty years, and has found and taken them without hesitation. They've even worked, mostly; he can't remember when he last thought of Tanha.

But now that everything is about to be torn away, he finds he doesn't mind at all. He won't miss any of this, the wealth, the power, the empire. The idea of oblivion is, finally, quite welcome. Comforting, almost.

So he gets up, and walks to the desk, and lifts the gun. Checks it over one last time, feels its heft. Yes, this is how it should be.

As he places the barrel in his mouth, the telephone rings, and he hesitates. He knows, suddenly, that all he has to do is pick up the receiver and everything will change. Something has shifted in the world -- or under it -- something has changed while he's been lost in maudlin introspection. He has only to answer the telephone to claim a new life.

Eventually, the phone stops ringing.
Posted by matt at April 25, 2005 11:55 PM