The Kitchen Floor

She’s young, thin and pale with long, disheveled and dirty black hair, and bags under her large black eyes as though she hasn’t slept in weeks. Mascara runs down her cheeks as she sits slumped over a kitchen table with a phone receiver pressed to her ear. On an ashtray nearby rests a lit cigarette, slowly consuming itself. A small silver handgun lies next to it. Her voice is coarse and shaky.

“Look, I’m in an extremely bad financial situation. I didn’t know my insurance wouldn’t cover all of this. Can’t you please arrange for me to make some sort of payments?”

She gets up and paces back and forth a few times across the kitchen floor. The voice on the other end of the line is frustrated and patronizing.

“I’m sorry but there’s nothing else that I can do. You will have to deal with the collection agency. I’m sure they will be able to help you.”

She slouches back in to the chair with a heavy sigh.

“But I thought my insurance covered everything.”

“It covers most things, but you have to remember that you have a deductible.”

She tosses the receiver across the kitchen floor. It hits the wall and shatters. She can’t see past her mounting problems. She can’t think or breathe she’s so tired.

She takes a drag before stubbing the cigarette out. Picks up the handgun from the kitchen table and holds it to her temple. False start. Carefully lays the gun down and paces a few more times. The pacing doesn’t help clarify her thoughts. Her mind is blank, her body numb.

Sits back down holding the gun to her temple again. Calmly and willfully this time, she pulls the trigger. With a jerk, lead rushes through, pulverizing her skull, penetrating her brain. Vacant eyes wide as her ragdoll body goes limp.

Her head is gone. All forgotten. Her torments splashed in blood all over the kitchen floor. Life reset.