This happened several years ago. Before kids. Before adulthood really took full effect. It was back when my wife was just my girlfriend; when we were shacking up. Or, as some would say, living in sin.
Back then, my wife had a terrible habit of getting a job one month and quitting it the next. This was one those times when she was between jobs.
We lived in a trailer that had walls as thin as cardboard and single pane windows. A good western winter wind would tear through the park and have us freezing to the bone. The landlords lived in the woods just behind the trailer court. I’ve been in their house. It’s a goddamn mansion.
To this day, I still have little respect for those people. Living in your mansion on the hill, while you watched your tenants scurry around like ants, trying their best to make your tenement as livable as possible. Kind of like, we’re here and you never will be!
The American Dream, I guess.
Anyway, like I said, she was between jobs, it was the dead of winter, we only had enough gas for me to make it to work, and I had the flu. All day long I listened to her bitch about how we were broke, of how hungry she was, of how she was horny and wanted fucked, of how I had the points to call in (even though I knew we couldn’t afford it), and the straw that broke the camel’s back was when she told me of how I made her feel like shit!
You see, since the day we got together, my wife and I have always been trying to change something about the other; I don’t like this, I don’t like that! When two people get together, shouldn’t they love everything, if not, most things about one another? Fast forward nearly twelve years later and its pretty much the same thing.
Hence the reason why I like to say another year older and not another day wiser. That’s particularly true of birthdays!
So, hearing that I made her feel like shit (this would be a line I would hear numerous times down through the years; that, and you’ve already pissed me off today), I went down the hall, grabbed my nickle plated 38 Special, emptied the revolver, put one bullet back, spun the revolver and slapped back into the gun.
What can I say? The bitch pissed me off! There are a million different ways it could have gone wrong. Okay, not a million. But you get my drift?
“You say that I make you feel like shit,” I said, walking back into the living room, “then I would like to see you live without me.”
I raised the gun and placed the barrel up under my chin. In the middle of a tussle, she was able to wrestle the gun from me. In hindsight, since I had a few spare seconds to squeeze the trigger and didn’t, and since I only put one bullet in the gun, maybe I wasn’t so keen on killing myself, afterall.