Staring Down the Barrel of a .40 Glock

In memory of Brandon January 23, 1985- July 12, 2010

Written in memory of Brandon January 23, 1985- July 12, 2010

I sit down and stare at my hands. I had just gotten off the phone with my wife. It would be our last conversation. She didn’t know that though, in fact, I hoped she would call me back; take it back, tell me she loved me, but I knew she wasn’t going to. I told her the same thing I had told her two years ago when we had a similar argument with her declaration of wanting to get divorced. I had a job. That I’d be gone for a couple of weeks and she wouldn’t be able to get a hold of me. I’d send her a check in the mail to help with the debt we had gotten in. The story was plausible, but she wouldn’t understand the true meaning behind it until later.

It wasn’t the first time I had been abandoned, but it would be the last. I thought back to my childhood and remember asking my grandma if we were going to stay with her. My siblings and I had been bouncing back and forth between my mom and my grandparents for as long as I could remember. My mother had me when she was 16. Since then she had been married and divorced six times. My father never existed in my life. In fact he wasn’t even on my birth certificate.

This wasn’t my first marriage either. It was my second. I had gotten married young and when I joined the military she cheated on me. We fought it out and we got divorced. When our divorce was finalized I was going to end it, but I met her. She was unlike anyone I had ever met. Her ideas, thoughts, family was everything that I wanted, but never had. No one in her family had been divorced. They were stable and constant. She was stable and constant. I clung to her and in turn she loved me. Even as she was asking for a divorce now, even as she was abandoning me, she was offering to pay for me, take care of me until I was able to finish school, able to take care of myself. Anything she could do. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to be there she just didn’t want to be married. She didn’t want me.

I snapped back into reality, she was serious about a divorce. If I couldn’t make it work with her, I would never make it work with anyone. I put everything down in my room. I picked up my concealed carry permit and the Glock, grabbed my bag and put my bivy cover in it with a handful of other things. I put in headphones and listened to Shinedown’s
.45 on repeat. I started to walk. Four miles later I realized I was standing where I met her. I looked up the mountain and found a rock to lay down by. I pulled out the bivy and crawled inside.

Eventually someone would discover my body. I wondered how long it would take. No one knew what I was doing. I had told the two people that I cared about that I had a job and would be unavailable. No one else would bother trying to get a hold of me. How long would it take her to realize the job I had was to take my own life. The money she would get from my life insurance would cover the debt we had gotten in. She probably wouldn’t even realize I was gone. She ripped out my heart. I put the barrel of the Glock to my heart. The heart she had destroyed. With Shinedown still on repeat I pulled the trigger

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