Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 45

Sanford wrote fluidly, through the errors and through the next word to come. He had to admit, in such a short span of time it was the best of his writing, and with that, it was the best writing he would ever do.

There was only one more sentence to write—his closing statement—to wrap up the twisted tale of his life, which had been condensed to seven pages. He couldn't help but think: What would my father say? A ghastly thought, but a fitting one nonetheless.

Sanford looked around the room from where he sat. He saw ceramic figurines on the shelves—a long-forgotten hobby. They were of dolphins, zebras and monkeys, unicorns, centaurs, and other mythological creatures. He pictured Lucy and Sadie going to yard sales and flea markets, finding the perfect not-so-perfect figure. There were paintings on the walls. Hotel art. Above a church painting was a cross, slightly askew on the wall. Sanford never knew Lucy to be the religious type. He thought of Jesus momentarily. How heavy it must've been, lugging that around on his back, heckled and taunted by an angry mob.

His attention fell back to Lucy, sprawled out and dead on the floor like a taxidermy rug. Sanford's fingerprints pointing out his guilt.

How heavy it must have been...

He started to write again.

When he finished his last goodbye on paper he put the pen down, got up from the couch, and grabbed his gun from the floor in the foyer. The steel was extra cold from the melting ice that gathered over it.

I must've dropped it dragging Lucy inside.

The living room floor was hard on his knees; he fell to them next to the lifeless Lucy. It was time to join her, and the rest of them. He hoped they'd have him. Maybe, if there was an afterlife, he'd see his mother and his little brother again, grown up but wearing the same Christmas pajamas he had worn all those years ago.

Who was he kidding? There was nothing good coming. If there was a place for him to go he figured the only person he'd see was his father, burning alongside him.

There was a picture of Sadie on the bookshelf, alongside Lucy's copy of Jane Eyre and a scented candle, which read Christmas Morning on it. He let his eyes linger on the photo, Sadie from first grade, a smile, all teeth. Sanford smiled despite himself, then exhaled deeply and evenly. He closed his eyes.

The barrel of the gun entered smoothly, as if his mouth were designed for it, fitting like a holster.

It wasn't so bad—having death in your mouth, in some ways it was comforting. The cold, black steel with its hollowed barrel was ready, willing, and able to end his nightmare with no more than a simple squeeze.

Thank Christ.

Air wheezed into his lungs as the last gasp he'd ever take.

"I mub yuh, Adie," he said, his words mumbled by the steel.

No more killing, no more struggle.

"Sanford, don't!" an unfamiliar voice shouted from in front of him. The jolt of surprise almost caused him to pull the trigger on instinct. He opened his eyes. Ahead of him was a man he'd seen before, but only in papers and on the nightly news. He was a plump man, with heavy bags under his eyes.

"Don't do it, son."

It was too late not to do it. He knew what he was. He shut his eyes again.

"Listen to me, what's happening here is not what you think," Frank said, his eyes were fixed on Lucy, then came back to Sanford, who thought he looked as tired as he was.