A few words from the author: Thank you to all who read my story, and a bigger thank you to all who reviewed it. (I am aware that it is not very long, and that it is very sudden, but I wanted to speed it up a little)
FIGHT PESSIMISM, REVIEW MY FIC (it's not like you actually read these things T.T)!!
Warning: "T" rating envelope pushed.
Enjoy
October 4, 1970; 1901 local time; Apartment 342, Tacoma
She's gone. . .
Ichigo sat at the table of the apartment that he and his wife shared. Two empty liquor bottles lay on their sides, a shotglass and a half-empty bottle lay in front of him. To his right lay his pistol. His head was in his hands as he sobbed uncontrolably. One word rang over and over again in his alcohol-saturated brain.
Why. . . Why. . .
--
October 4, 1970; 1136 local time; ASARCO smelting plant, Tacoma
The smelting plant on Commencement Bay was an old part of Tacoma, it's 571 foot tall smokestack dominaing the landscape since 1917. Ichigo started his new job there at one of warehouses as a forklift operator shortly after getting married. The income was steady and the hours were less of a problem.
On this particular day Ichigo was sitting in the lunchroom eating a sandwich when he was approached by his supervisor.
"You, Kurosaki?"
"Yeah, that's me."
"There's a man on the line for you, says he's your father."
Ichigo looked slightly confused. "Where'd he call from?"
"The hospital. Said something about a car wreck."
Ichigo's expression changed to one of horror. He stood up and ran towards the manager's office.
"Dad, what's going on?!" Ichigo asked frantically.
"It's Tatsuki, she. . . she. . ." Ichigo hung up the phone as the supervisor walked in.
"What was that all about?"
"Something happened to my wife. I need to leave, get Rodney to cover my shift." Ichigo said as he sprinted out the door.
--
1939 local time; Apartment 342
Three empty liquor bottles now lay on the table. Ichigo sat there, staring at his pistol. His pistol, one of the relics from his time in Vietnam. It had been his companion when he left basic training, it had been by his side during the horrible night of Tet 1968, it saved his life on many occasions when he was in Saigon, it helped keep his friends alive when they were shot down near Cambodia. It was a loyal companion, and the only friend he could trust to do this job. . .
He picked up the weapon and ejected the magazine. . .
"Colt, M1911a1. . . Single-action semi-automatic pistol. . ." He murmured, repeating what he learned in the army. "Cartridge, .45 ACP. . . Magazine capacity. . . seven in the mag. . . one in the chamber. . ."
One in the chamber. . .
--
October 4, 1970; 1154 local time; Tacoma General Hospital
Ichgo parked his truck and dashed frantically into the building. He reached the receptionist short of breath. "I (huff). . . I need to speak (pant). . . with Dr. Kurosaki (gasp). . . Where is he?"
"What is your business with the doctor?"
"He called me (pant) not a half an hour ago (huff) about my (wheeze) wife."
"Oh dear. . ." The woman said looking slightly worried before, motioning to a nurse.
"Take him to the ICU." She said, the nurse nodded and motioned for Ichigo to follow her.
--
2005 local time; Apartment 342
Ichigo took a look at the magazine in his hand. Holding it up to his face, he began taking the bullets out and placing them on the table. Finishing this task, he put the magazine back into the weapon.
Now for the most importaint decision. . . Where?
--
Intensive care unit, Tacoma General Hospital
Ichigo followed the nurse through the white halls, not bothering to look a the other patients. Finally he came to his father who was sitting outside the door with his head in his hands. Two bloody gloves sat next to him on the table.
"Dad, what happened?"
"I'm sorry. . ."
"No. . . no. . ." Ichigo said, a look of horror coming across his face as he ran into the room.
--
2019 local time; Apartment 342
I could go through the heart, that would do the job. . .
Ichigo shook his head, recalling from past experience.
Too painful. . . Won't work fast enough. . .
--
Intensive care unit, Tacoma General Hospital
Ichigo stood at the door, frozen in his tracks. In the middle of the room was a gurney with a body on it, a blood stained sheet covered the body as a young intern prepared to take it to the morgue.
"Wait!" Ichigo shouted to the man. "Who is that?"
"The doctor said her name was, umm. . . Tats. . . Tatsuki Kurosaki"
Ichigo lifted the sheet slightly and peered under it. He froze, his knees buckled and he fell to the linoleum floor in tears.
"Are you alright sir?" The intern asked, attempting to get Ichigo off the floor. The young man looked at Isshin, who had followed his son in. "Doctor, what's going on."
"That's my son," The doctor said motioning to the man who was sobbing on the floor. He then motioned to the gurney. "That was his wife. . ."
--
2036 local time; Apartment 342
Ichigo looked at the weapon in his hand. Experience and training both taught him a myriad of ways to kill a man. He had been the unfortunate witness or participant in the majority of these ways.
He raised the weapon, putting the muzzle under his jaw, feeling the cold metal on his skin.
How easy it would be he thought, to just pull the trigger. . .
To pull the trigger, to end his life. . .
To end this pain. . .
His finger began to tighten around the trigger. There was a strange resistance. . .
No matter how hard he pulled, the gun would not fire. Frustrated, Ichigo threw the weapon across the room. The handgun flew through the air, hitting a stack of dishes and causing them to break with a resounding crash. Ichigo stood up, took a few wobbly steps before his knees gave, and passed out on the floor.
--
October 5, 1970; 0729 local time; Apartment 342
Ichigo woke up on the linoleum floor of the kitchenette with a throbbingly powerful headache. He stood up slowly, trying to remember what happened. He looked at the table.
Bottles. . . Bullets? . . . What the hell? . . .
Ichigo's gaze followed an imaginary line and came to rest on a pile of broken dishes. He walked over to the shattered plates and saw his pistol. He picked up the weapon and ejected the magazine.
No bullets in the mag. . .
He moved the slide back, the bullet in the chamber flew out and landed on the ground.
One in the chamber? Ichigo thought.
One in the chamber. . . The thought jarred loose the memories of the past twenty four hours. Dear god. . . why. . .
Ichigo groaned got himself dressed and made his way back to the smelting plant.
--
October 5, 1970; 1219 local time; ASARCO smelting plant
Ichigo sat at the lunch table eating his take-out. An envelope was situated to his right. After finishing his meal, Ichigo threw his box and dishes away before picking up the envelope.
Ichigo made his way to his manager's office and knocked on the door.
"Come in" A voice on the other side said. Ichigo entered the man's office; ignoring the various pictures, awards, and other trappings located around the room. A bald man, roughly thirty years old looked up from his paperwork, "Hey. . . umm, what's your name again?"
"Ichigo Kurosaki." The strawberry blonde responded.
"Oh, right, the new kid. What can I do for you?"
"I just wanted to give you this." Ichigo said, putting the envelope on the desk.
"What is it?" The manager asked.
"My two weeks notice."
"You're quitting already?"
"Something came up yesterday." Ichigo said in a rather somber tone.
"That's too bad, you where doing pretty good job. You sure I couldn't persuade you to stay?"
Ichigo shook his head slowly.
"You sure you don't want to talk about it?" The manager said, making one last request.
"I guess you are entitled to the facts." Ichigo said before adopting a stoic demeanor. "Yesturday afternoon, there was an accident concerning my wife. She is now dead."
The man's eyes grew in shock before he nodded. "I'm sorry" he said as he picked up the envelope. He dismissed Ichigo and went back to his paperwork. 'Poor kid' he thought.