Goodbye

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I can hear the ringing from the sound of his fingernails on the metal barrel and it lets me know exactly what's being spun around in his hands. A chrome .45, pearl grip, shined to gleaming. Even over the phone, I can imagine what's happening perfectly, the threat of it hanging over our heads for years now. He's in faded jeans, a red flannel, surrounded by trees. There's a knife tucked into his belt, swung low.

There's silence on the phone, before I whisper breaking the tension that began to exist the moment I picked up his call.

"Why are you doing this?"

He scoffs. "I told you that I didn't want to see past 25. I figured with a couple good memories under my belt, I'd just accelerate the timeline a little bit. Go out on some happier times."

I'm over 50 miles away, driving home from work, and even without being near, I know that we're both at the wrong end of that stupid, no-good pistol that's being thrown back and forth between his hands.

"You don't have to do this."

"I'm going to."

I'm pleading now. "Why? What about your sisters? Your friends? What good is going to come of this? You don't need to do this. It's not too late." I can feel the tears starting to pool, desperation leaking into my voice. "You don't have to."

His reply hurts. "You can't change it now. I'm not even sure why I called you."

"Maybe because you knew I'd try and argue you out of it? Because this is a stupid decision that you shouldn't make?"

He drawls his word slowly. "Nah, I think.. I think I just trusted you enough to say goodbye."

I hear the safety click right before he hangs up the phone, in time with my pain-ridden whisper.

"Goodbye."