A Steady Hand
Her hand was steady.
A small stone stood like a sore thumb in the
lush grass. The fluffiness of the green strands laughing at the young
mother who sat atop it. There was such life in it. How could something so
insignificant be so lively and beautiful? It glistened happily, enjoying the
tiny droplets of water.
Faith,
Never Lived a Full Life
This was inscribed in the stone that she slouched in front of. The small
dirt pile had beads of green growing out of the soil. Soon only the stone
would mark her daughter’s place. She did not care if the water on her face
was salty or not. It didn’t matter.
A cry echoed in her head. The loud whine ringing in her ears,
tormenting her. It had been a consistent sound in her small apartment. She
remembered. There was no harm in resting her head on the table. None.
But the crash had woken her fragile body with a sudden shock. Her
heartbeat pounded in her ears. She couldn’t handle what she had seen,
what she had allowed to happen.
Beside her, a black handgun and a bottle of white pills hung in the grass
like a welcoming friend. Soon, she and her daughter would be together
again. And this time she would do things right. Her selfish mind would
only think of her. She would not let the sadness that was trapped inside
her soul take her daughter away again. The gun was her hope.
Her hand was steady.