Matches to Ashes (standard:horror, 2845 words)
Author: Seth	Added: Apr 13 2009	Views/Reads: 2972/1988	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A suicidal man meets death in every way he wished he hadn't. I ran out of time at the end so it's a little rushed. Sorry about that.

If you want to comment on my story (I would really appreciate that) 
you'd have to send it directly to my email: Zethkorn@yahoo.com, the one 
at the bottom doesn't send for some reason.  Sorry about that, but 
thanks.  Now Enjoy! ___ Sand swirled around the empty parking lot that 
was laying in front of the old cafe that I used to own.  I just sat 
down in my car, slumped onto the steering wheel, looking at the 
meaningless dials that told your speed among other things.  I was 
looking at this, but not seeing it; all I could see was my hollow life 
that I would be forced to follow to my ultimate demise, like a train on 
tracks heading to a place where the tracks were broken.  Derailed. 

My name is and was Elliot Sullivan, I'm 39, and I used to be happy.  I
had myself a nice business going, called Elliot's Cafe (you have no 
idea how many grueling hours it took to come up with such a brilliant 
name);  I also had myself a girl, named Diane.  She was a sweet girl, 
really was.  I live in a tiny desert town deep in Nevada.  Named Ely.  
It was nice.  Then a big chain business offered to buy my place, but, 
since I loved the little cafe, I politely declined.  The put a squeeze 
on me, and I went bankrupt, forced to sell it for half of what it was 
worth.  My girl left me because I was "Financially unstable", but she 
still "I love you so much, darling", and that "Nothing will ever change 
that". 

Bullshit. 

I felt the sting in my eyes, that was signaling tears were soon to
follow, but I held them back.  I had no job.  I had no girl.  I had 
nothing. 

Yeah, nothing except a shotgun with one bullet that I bought earlier
that day. 

Why not? 

I brought the gun from the back seat up to in front of me.  I looked
down the barrel, almost expecting the bullet to jump out of it on it's 
own; the blackness inside the barrel reminded me of the hell I would 
most certainly be going to if there actually turns out to be a God.  I 
sighed, and turned on the radio, it was deafening.  Some country singer 
was whining through the storms of static.  I turned it up louder. . . 

The clock read 9:43 to me in green digits.  The sky was bleeding in the
west, and the dimming light glimmered on the black muzzle of the gun 
brilliantly. I put the opening in my mouth, and was frightened on how 
well the double barrel fit.  It was almost as if that was what it was 
meant for.  I was just about to cock it when headlights flooded the 
windshield with light.  I quickly hid the gun, and rolled down the 
window to wave; about five tons of sand hit my face, and I had to 
squint so my eyes wouldn't erode away.  The other car pulled beside 
mine, blocking off the worst of the wind and sand.  I opened my eyes to 
see Officer Jeremy in his squad car.  I politely switched off the 
radio. 

"Hey Jerry!  You gotta work out in this shit?"  I put on a convincing,
yet false, smile on my face.  It felt like someone else was controlling 
my face, and my voice sounded like it was coming from inside a box. He 
nodded.  "Yeah, but it's not too bad, the weather channel said it was 
gonna blow over around midnight.  Say, what're you doing out here?  
It's getting late." 

"Just looking at the old cafe, that's all"  Said I.  I felt like
throwing up was evident.  I have never been so scared in my life. . . 
well, that was true until later that very night. 

"Are you okay, Elliot?  You don't look good.  Not at all."  He looked
worried for me.  Even though he was one of my only friends, I wanted 
nothing more, than to yell "I'm OKAY!"  and blow my fucking brains all 
over the inside the car. 

Instead, I smiled, and said "I'm okay. . . I promise." 

Jerry looked me over again, and just drove off without a word. 

I better hurry up before someone else came by, I told myself.  I don't
think I could lie like that to another person. . . 


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