Suicide no. 67: Ten Minutes
(Image taken from HERE)
–by Derek Alan Wilkinson
Ten minutes is all it took.
He started in with his typical rant about where I’d been. He knows. Five years we’ve been together, but he’s aware of where I’m at and what I’m up to when he works late.
It’s a shame that he knew, and a much bigger one that I couldn’t stop.
The conversation started innocuous. Then, something different happened. He shook while he yelled at the top of his lungs. His face was covered in a different kind of panic: like he knew something bad was about to happen.
“This ends here,” he said to me, defiantly.
“Okay” is all I responded with, failing to realize that he wasn’t just leaving me.
With a pistol in his hand I’d never seen before, I was too speechless to even have a chance to tell him to stop—he just did it.
And then, I screamed.
In the ten minutes it took to try to keep things the way they were, I could’ve talked him back into sanity. Like I said: He didn’t just leave me that day.
He left everybody else, too.