His sweet troubled son, alone in his room; only prolonging the inevitable. They both knew he was taking drugs, so had brought him to a psychiatrist and bought the Prozac that insurance didn’t cover; but they didn’t know that currently he had taken a loaded shotgun from the drawers, a gun that he placed under his chin and pushed down on the trigger.
After the explosion they were quickly inside the son’s room. The gun had fallen to the side. His son had fallen to one side; his face mauled: the lower jaw obliterated, some upper teeth haphazardly clinging to flesh. Nose and lower eyelids annihilated, the deflated eyeballs wrinkled like a dropped soufflé. His son’s legs, then his arms, convulsed into spasms; he was barely alive but without air.
They were rendered catatonic.
His mind drifted into a numb state at the dystopic scene before him.
He steeled himself. Focus. Think like a surgeon and not a father. wife had buckled to the ground, in a emotional heap, her entire body shaking, wailing.
He caressed his sweet son’s head with both hands. "Get up," he barked to his wife. "You’ve got to do this." Gravely she stood. "Prop him up with the the pillow.”
He allowed the head to fall backwards hoping to find the gleaming end of the trachea. There were no landmarks, just flesh and blood, alongside slivers of bone.
"Bring me a razor, dettol, towels and a band aid He needed tools . . . and needed to keep her busy.