The gun swung from a rope tied along the rafters of the warehouse. Alone, no one here for years—Shawn pushed the gun back and forth…quickly ducking out of the way as it acted like a perverted pendulum ready to pounce on a condemned man’s head.
Pictures of family members, friends and former lovers were scattered on the floor. Shawn glanced at a snapshot of his dead sister—she was smiling while the New England snow fell around her. She’s been dead for ten years now. He again looked at the gun.
The barrel pointed down at him…swaying slowly as his head rocked back and forth to the rhythm of the pistol; slower and slower. He grabbed it; put his index finger on the trigger. Someone’s moment of clarity about to be revealed.
“A final hiatus…that’s all,” he whispered.