Zachary Wilhide is a writer and artist who lives in Virginia Beach, VA with his wife and cat. He has previously had stories published in Out of the Gutter Online, Spelk Fiction, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama Magazine, and Shotgun Honey.
Raindrops splatter on my windshield as I pull into the funeral home parking lot. Sotheby is outside under the awning smoking a cigarette in the late December gloom. The building lights limn his figure in a gothic glow. I get out of the car and pull my collar up against the cold.
“You’re late,” he says. His breath hangs in the air, punctuating the menace in his words. He snorts and spits on the ground. He subtly wipes his wispy mustache; reminds me of Doc Holliday.
“I know, car trouble,” I lie. “Have they started?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. Looks like a full house,” I say, gesturing toward the parking lot.
“Hmmm…yeah.” He looks toward the funeral home and exhales a mouthful of smoke. “She was his favorite. God damn shame.”
“How is the boss? You know how he gets.”
Sotheby scoffs. “Keeping up appearances. Believing his lies.”
I nod and rub my hands together in a futile attempt to warm them.
“I’ll see you in there?”
“Maybe,” he says, stubbing out his cigarette with his shoe. “I’ve been to too many of these over the years. Boss likes to have his proof.”
I force a smile and turn to walk in, hoping that the conversation is over.
“Some of them hang around, you know.”
“What’s that?”
He looks down at the grass. His eyes focus on a small puddle near his feet. “I know that all of you think it’s easy, what I do, and for the most part it is; eventually you just go numb, but sometimes…some people…. They hang around my neck like a noose. So tight, it’s like I can’t breathe. You know what I mean? I can feel them now. You can see them when I say their names. Lorenzo, Vincent…Sarah….” He pauses, and we watch his breath float toward the sky.
The corner of my eye sees Sotheby reach into his coat pocket. Probably the last thing a lot of people have seen. I say a silent prayer for it to be quick. Instead, he pulls out a picture strip, thin as a bookmark. He tilts it so I can see it better, shielding it from the rain.
My stomach drops. The tension from weeks of surreptitious looks and secret kisses in alleyways had broken one night. A carnival had been in town; she’d wanted to ride the Ferris wheel. Full lips convinced me, said I was being paranoid. Told me it was dark, anonymous…safe. “Who notices two lovers at a fair?” she’d asked, her nervous laughter soothing my nerves. On top of that wheel, her face bathed in moonlight, flush from the carnival, I understood angels. Later, in that photo booth, pushed up against her, inhaling the botanical scent of her skin, I understood love.
“Why her? You could have had any of the bitches we come across, man. You had to have known what would happen.” Sotheby’s voice wavers and his eyes water. “Shit…anyone.” He lets the photo strip fall to the ground; it lands in the grass. I watch as the raindrops distort our faces.
I don’t say anything as remorse grips my chest. The silence surrounds us like a coffin.
“I had to do it, you know,” he continues, choking up. “You know what that was like? Watching the light drain out of those eyes. Those beautiful…blue eyes…. They watch me when I sleep. I can’t get them out of my head.” Tears are falling off his chin, wearily mixing with the rain. He reaches into his coat again. “I don’t blame you, Billy. Really…really, I don’t.” A glint catches my eye. I flinch.
He puts the gun underneath his chin and pushes his head up toward the sky. “I loved her too,” he says, and his last words hang like ghosts between us.
~ fin ~
Zachary Wilhide is a writer and artist who lives in Virginia Beach, VA with his wife and cat. He has previously had stories published in Out of the Gutter Online, Spelk Fiction, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama Magazine, and Shotgun Honey.
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