The End of Iris

I grab the gun from Emory’s safe and head out the door. There’s this old church where I grew up. It’s been abandoned for at least thirty years. It’s almost completely wooded over now. Strong, tall, flowering weeds have busted through the windows and cracked through the porch. Its foundation is crumbling, and now that I think about it, just walking through this place might kill me. This church was always a safe haven for me. I prayed here so many times. Asking God for help, for forgiveness, for hope—all before I decided I didn’t believe anymore. No God would make me suffer this much. I found the church when I was about ten years old, walking around after my parents had a bad fight. I was so upset that I took off and started wandering. It was the first time I ever witnessed Keith hitting my mom. Looking back, I don’t even remember what their fight was about, but it escalated enough for them to be screaming so loud my little brother came running inside to see what was happening. Soon after the yelling, Keith was towering over my mom, who was now on the kitchen floor. Her eye was already starting to swell. She was completely stone-faced and muttered, “You have completely destroyed me. Now it’s just visible from the outside.” I shudder at the memory. I lay down the blanket I was carrying and spread it out on the dusty plywood floor. I contemplate this decision one last time. I have plenty of time to beat Emory home and hide any evidence that this was ever on my mind, but I quickly remember my suffering, and I’m immediately put back into the headspace. I think about death. Will it hurt? I’ve thought about this so many times that I’m just remembering conversations I’ve had with myself. I keep the safety on and point it to my head, not ready to fully commit. It feels invigorating. I take off the safety, and I look at the monster in my hands. The same monster that kills unwilling people every single day, and I feel powerful. I point the gun to my head and rest my finger on the trigger. I’ve never been this close to death before, and I’m starting to recap my life. When the images float through my head, there is so much pain in all of them. Times that were supposed to be happy for me were miserable. Me, as a kindergartener pouring milk from the jug for the first time and spilling it all over the counter; moments later, Keith behind me holding my face in the white puddle. My first boyfriend picking me up for our first date as a couple, only for it to end in a fight and to be called stupid for the first time by a man that I should have been able to trust. Our first family vacation without my abusive father, only for him to show up to our hotel and be arrested for assaulting my mom. My first chance at forgiveness for Keith, only for him to be in a car accident and die on the way to meet me for lunch. I get angry. I shove the weapon harder to my temple, only to begin thinking of my Emory. I picture myself tracing his back with my fingertips and kissing the nape of his neck. I remember the day after we got married, we were so blissfully happy having our first full day of husband and wife. He woke me up with breakfast in bed and gave me a letter that talked about how much he adored me. He always knew what I needed to hear. I feel a twinge of guilt and put the gun back down. Maybe this isn’t supposed to be the way I go. Maybe I’m supposed to live a long life. Am I messing up someone’s greater plan by taking action myself? Am I being selfish? I get angry again. I pick the gun back up, and before talking myself out of it again, I put it to my head and pull the trigger. There’s a ringing in my ear, and I can’t open my eyes. I start hyperventilating, knowing that I’m still somehow alive. Everything hurts, I’m in agonizing pain, and I try to belt out a scream, but not even a breath leaves my mouth. My limbs are tingling, and I can’t move my fingers. I am completely paralyzed, and I feel warmth under the small of my back; realizing it’s my blood, I panic more. I try to yell, “EM! EMORY!” But nothing is coming out. I don’t even think my mouth is moving. I realize that I am dying. It was supposed to be quick and not painful, but this is the reality of it. I am dying. I relax my mind as I remember my note to Em. My Emory, You deserve more than a damaged flickering light of a wife. You will always be everything to me. I’m so sorry. Remember me on our wedding day. Remember the way you’ve always loved me. Do not remember me this way. —Iris