One Step Behind

Chapter 1

    I stare at the ghost-white ceiling turned golden, that of a lightly burned marshmallow being made for a s'more, by my bedside lamp. My head is resting on a pillow covered in a royal purple pillowcase. My body is surrounded by sheets of the same color.
   My eyes, red with the biggest bags known to man, remain unblinking for extended periods of time. My eyes are puffy from the hours of crying - a nightly occurrence now.
    Turning my head to the left, a digital clock displays four-ten a.m. in the bright red that all standard alarm clocks come with. Sadly, sleep is not an option, even at this time. The rare days I do sleep, it usually consists of nightmares and only two to five hours of sleep. The clock hanging on the wall adjacent from me that was gifted to me from my grandmother mocks me with each tick of the seconds. A shaky sigh exits my mouth as my hand escapes the sheets to wipe away the tears fresh on my face.
    When my face becomes dry, I sit up, looking around my room. It being only four foot by five, it's the smaller one in the house, but the ceiling gives enough breathing space since it stands at seven feet high. The walls sport a dark gray coat of paint with no other extra accessory. One small window sits facing the back of the house. It's barred from the inside with a curtain of the same shade of gray. I look to my door; it shares the the same ghost-white of the ceiling. It's a relatively normal door, just like any other. What makes this one special? Nothing much, really. Besides the seven locks connected to it. Going from the top to bottom, there are three latches with padlocks, two bolt locks, and two chain locks.
    Even with all of this protection - the locks, the bars, and the one handgun in small nightstand by my bed - he still got to me physically. I never felt safe. Bury me in a room forty feet underground, I would always feel he could get to me. My own mind wages war on me every day.
    I peak back at the nightstand holding my lamp and digital clock. Another item rests upon the stand: an employee name tag for BluBird's Landing that read "Jack Richards" with subtext that said "MANAGER". I've worked at that coffee shop for eight years - since I was sixteen. You may be wondering, "why would the name of a coffee shop be so strange?" Well, the original owner, Shannon Lane, had a child whom was nicknamed Blue Bird since she was always fascinated with blue-colored birds. Blue Bird ended up passing away from a serious illness at the age of nine. Shannon spent most days mourning after that. A month after the death, Shannon was able to acquire a decent sized building, big enough to host a shop of some sort. She figured the majority of people enjoyed coffee, so she got everything needed to form a good enough shop to last 10 years now. I met Shannon through a mutual friend and was offered a job due to my "bubbly and friendly character," according to her. As years went on, she remained the owner until just two years ago; she appointed our mutual friend as owner of this store as she pursued her dream to open multiple BluBird's Landings across the state.
    I laugh as I say bubbly back to myself. After everything that's happened. After all this shit I've been put through. After what I did to a stranger because of a simple fucking assumption. The memory of that night is always crystal clear, forever etched in my brain. But as they say, nothing kills a man faster than his own head, eh?
    I wipe away the newly found tears rolling down my cheeks due to the memories. Sliding out from under the sheets, my feet make contact with the cold, hardwood floor. I stand up off the bed and waddle my way over to the window, sporting the huge slouch I've developed. Feeling as weak as paper, I lift my arm to move the curtain restricting my view. The first thing I notice is the message still scratched into the glass from the outside. You remember the message, right? Of course you do.
    I look past the message to the parking lot not too far away. My house was close to a highway; the parking lot was for a major grocery store. The soft moonlight was no match for the street lights in the lot. The moon was full tonight. I've always had  major fascination with that lunar beast. But who has time to be fascinated with anything when so much shit has happened this past year.
    Out of frustration, I throw the curtain back over the window, nearly ripping it off of the wall. That's it. I'm done. I don't give a damn about anything so what's the point. I storm over to the nightstand, rip the drawer out, and stare at the gun resting there. It was an M1911. My father passed it down to me. He served in the Marine Corps for 20 years before he was honorably discharged due do losing his right leg from below the knee.
    I grab the gun and hold it firmly in my hand. I eject the magazine and inspect it. Two bullets had already been fired. I would let tears escape their prison - if I had any more to spare. It's essentially an abandoned haunted prison behind my eyes at this point. I never thought it would end this way. But life is always unpredictable. It's been a long run, friend. I appreciate you for being here for me though this. But you couldn't save me. I'm sorry, I sound like a dick now.
    I slowly pull the gun up and place it on my temple. I start to squeeze the trigger. Nothing special happens; my life doesn't flash before my eyes, I don't feel any enlightenment, no weights lifted...nothing. I squeeze more.

  Wait, fuck! I push the gun away from my head just before the bullet is fired. I accidentally squeezed too much and a bullet lodged itself into a wall.

    I never told you how it started, did I? Damn, I really am a dick.
    So this is how it all began--