Zach VandeZande

I’m going to pull the trigger and it will be a beautiful reprieve. I’ve been waiting for this for years.

I’ve fired a shotgun plenty of times. Most of the time I put it up to my shoulder and then after awhile my shoulder gets bruised (I always forget to keep it held tight against my body) and I’m done shooting clays for the day. Just thinking about it makes my arm ache; the doctor at the free clinic said I should have surgery. I can’t afford it.

I’ve never shot anything living. I’m not some kind of vegan, although I would appreciate the irony of it. I just don’t see the point of killing things when I see so much of the dead at work. Today is different; the barrel is under my chin.

Emily is in the corner crying. She hates me now so I don’t give a fuck. That’s the point of this whole exercise. This is why I’m sitting on this chair with this shotgun under my chin and my mouth tastes bitter.

Maybe I should back up a bit.

I work at a meat processing plant. I cut cows open; I’ve been doing it for years. Emily is sick, and she answered a personal ad once. That’s enough for now.

“I’m going to do it,” I say, and I really mean it this time. Emily takes her head out of her hands and her face is a wreck, all twisted and contorted with black makeup running crinkly lines down her face.

I want her to look that way, but I know it’s for all the wrong reasons, which is why I’m doing this. There is a mean glint in her eye. I think she hates me now. That’s fine because it will make things easier.

“God, don’t be such a drama queen,” she spits out.

I slam the shotgun’s butt on the ground and pump it with my left hand, catching the twelve gauge shell with my other hand. I hold it up and look at it. It is the instrument of my destruction. Sorry, I’m being melodramatic. It’s a light blue color, not red like the shotgun shells you see in movies. I think it’s for shooting small game birds, but I don’t know because I always just buy whatever is cheapest.

I hope it kills me fast enough; I don’t want to make an experience out of dying or anything. If I did I would have hung myself or bled to death. Maybe jumped off a building. Well, actually, I would have jumped in one of the grinders at work, per our agreement. But that’s not what I want to do. I decide I should put it in my mouth instead of under my chin, just to be sure it goes all the way through.

“Just do it if you’re going to do it,” Emily shouts from her corner. She keeps interrupting my train of thought. Part of me wants her to leave. Most of me wants her to stay so she can see the future.

I want to think back on work one last time. When you cut a cow open you’re trying to get the entrails out without spilling. The conveyers move fast; they seem to get faster every year. This year I averaged about six a minute. That’s ten seconds to make two cuts with a razor sharp knife and tie a knot at each end of the intestines. The only gloves we ever wear are thin latex ones like surgeons wear. Anything thicker and we wouldn’t have been as precise.

Anyway, sometimes you spill cow shit and sometimes you spill your own blood. Either way the conveyor doesn’t stop, and neither can you.

I have done this for twenty years. The only reason I still work there is because I’m too dumb for anything else. I don’t say this as self-deprecation. Years ago tests and teachers and college recruiters have let me know the truth. I don’t do well under pressure. Everyone else I worked with has moved on or moved up and they all have been replaced by people who don’t speak English. I stayed, because I knew that it was my only possible chance to do something good for the world. To do a miracle.

Now Emily has ruined it. That stupid bitch. Why did she have to ruin it? I had the perfect plan for a miracle.

“I’ll do it when I’m ready,” I say, and it comes out of nowhere because a few minutes have passed since she last spoke. I turn the gun over and reload the round. I pump it and it’s chambered. I double check the safety; it’s still off.

Emily and I have been playing this game for hours. Every time I say I’m going to do it I mean it, and every time I unload the round and reload it I’m ready again. I’ve gotten quite good at catching it.

Actually, we’ve been playing this game for over a year. It started when she called me and asked about the want ad I placed. I was up front about what I meant and we decided to meet to sort it all out.

That first date was awkward. Neither of us knew what to say. I don’t think anyone would. We couldn’t really discuss the details because it was just… odd. I remember thinking she was beautiful.

Now she is a different beautiful. She’s beautiful because of what will happen to her. She is the embodiment of revenge. It’s more of a metaphysical thing now.

We got to know each other and I realized there was a flaw in my plan. Maybe it was the way she would look at me. Maybe it was the way she said “I do” during the marriage ceremony, like it was a real, honest thing. Maybe it was a million little things. I loved her.

“I want you to know this is your fault,” I say, and she shoots her middle finger into the air. I’ve said it at least twice. I can’t concentrate under pressure.

“You’re not at all repentant?” I ask quietly.

“You knew what this was!” she screamed back at me. “You know why I was here!”

I know, but I had hoped differently. Every day I would come home from work and she would smile her little smile. Some days she couldn’t hide her quiet disappointment. I run my finger along the tip of the barrel. It’s cold. It won’t be. I wonder what it tastes like. I wonder what it’s made of. Probably steel.

“Why did you say you loved me?” I ask as I look down at the barrel. I don’t want to see her face anymore. I don’t know that I want to do this. There’s still a chance that I could work a miracle.

“Oh God,” she said with an exasperated voice. “I just said that so you would help me.” From the corner of my eye I see her bury her head in her smooth hands. Mine are cracked and scarred. She was still young, and I was a wasted life. Maybe I can help her but her words cut through to the bone. She’s crying again and I still wonder why. Is it for the inevitable loss of me?

I see her spread eagle on the bed again with some asshole I don’t even know on top of her. I really don’t know anything about her. Some miracle.

“I don’t believe it,” I say, “I saw your face when you would say it.”

She sobs into her hands again. She sniffs and wipes her eyes, spreading her makeup into a spidery mask of self-pity. “Ok,” she says, and her voice is shaking. “I did love you. But I didn’t love you like that. I couldn’t. If I did I would die, and to be honest…”

She lets it hang in the air, and suddenly I feel sick inside. This isn’t nerves. Maybe I did it all to myself.

“How did you love me, then?” I ask. I look her in the eyes for the first time all night.

“I loved you because I owed you that much. I loved you like a dad, like a benefactor,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Like a savior?” I plead.

“Sure,” she says, smiling her little smile, “like a savior.”

I smile back. It would have happened if I hadn’t been sent home early. I would have fallen into that meat grinder oblivious to the truth, and it would have been a miracle.

Or maybe I should have expected as much. I should have expected that greed or self-preservation was all she felt. I should have known no one deserves a miracle.

I can’t forgive. I can’t work a miracle. I’m not made for it. Now she won’t get any life insurance money like we had agreed, because it doesn’t pay out on a suicide. She certainly won’t get double for me dying in a work-related accident. She won’t get any big settlement from my company for the fact that my whole life was wasted on them and they couldn’t even fix the railing I leaned against.

Mine will be a quick death. Hers will be a slow burn as she sinks into poverty again and her flesh becomes diseased and rotten from her rare illness that requires the best treatment in the world, with all the top-shelf potions and pay-for-play miracles.

I’ve wanted to die for years. I wanted to die when I placed that want ad. How did it go again? She looks shocked as I put the barrel in my mouth. The only thing I can think about is a gun is a phallic symbol.

Wait, concentrate. How did it go?

Wanted: One girl who needs a miracle to be my wife.

I put my toe in place and pull the trigger.