Lucy - Introduction

He looked around the cramped room, glazed over eyes lingering on all the little details that he had failed to notice before. The tacky paisely bedspread that lay crumpled in a soiled heap on the foot of the bed. The required tacky painting of fruit, complete with gilded frame. The faux wooden fan blades whirling listlessly on the ceiling, ineffectively cooling the room. The bucket full of newly melted ice that slowly dripped over onto the desk. He took in everything except what sat in the corner.

Every sweep of his eyes glossed right over the chair that sat opposite of him, as though some force prevented his sight from resting on it. Instead his attention was drawn to the bedside table. A mirthless smirk escaped his lips as his eyes fell onto the gideon bible sitting unopened next to the woodstock era lamp. God wasn't welcome here. With a trembling hand he picked it up and slid it into the drawer. His fingers left the supple and worn leather and moved over to the only other object in the drawer.

It was contrast to the scripture in every way. All hard lines, he could see a distorted reflection of himself in the metallic finish, the polished wood grip looked well worn. It felt wrong to him, seeing these two things laying there side by side.

He grabbed the colt .44 from the drawer and closed it, laying the pistol where the bible had been moments before. He sighed, breathing slightly easier. Something bothered him about that book. He didn't know why, but just seeing it gave him an uneasy feeling.

No sooner did he set down the gun that his hands began to itch to pick it back up. He rubbed his palms on his legs, ran his fingers through his hair, got up and started pacing back and forth. His gait was unsteady. The smell of sweat and booze would've knocked him over if he even noticed it after all the time he spent cooped up with it.

He grabbed the revolver and flipped open the cylinder, counting the cartridges within. All six were accounted for. He slammed it shut and cocked the hammer, hand shaking with his nerves. He set the gun back down and instead grabbed the drink that sat next to it, slamming it back. He couldn't even remember what he was drinking; it burned on the way down and kept things hazy, that was all that mattered.

"I'm going to have one heck of a hangover," he muttered. Realizing what he said, he stopped cold and barked a short laugh.

Finally he took a seat again, eyes glued to the handgun. It was in his hands again, but he couldn't remember picking it up.

"Are you going to shoot yourself?"

The voice should've surprised him, but it didn't. Nothing could surprise him now. He didn't turn his attention to the source though. He knew what he would see, but not how he'd handle it. He couldn't handle much these days. His drink and the gun were about all he could manage.

He reflected on the question before answering. It struck him as odd to hear such a blunt question voiced by such a melodious voice.

"I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing. Nothing feels right anymore. Not since...not in a long time."

He took another long drink, his unsteady hand causing some to spill down his unshaven face. He was beyond caring. Eyes squeezed tight, he could feel the weight of the gun in his hand. It felt like an iron anchor pulling down on him. The full weight of his life weighing down on him.

"How many second chances are you counting on?" She asked, speaking up again. He shook his head. He didn't remember why he needed a second chance, but he knew he didn't deserve one.

He had no answer for her this time. Instead he slowly lifted the gun, the cold barrel of the gun pressed firmly under his jaw. His hand shook uncontrollably as silent tears streamed down his face. Some part of his mind registered them in surprise - he thought he had run out of tears long since. Closing his eyes, he prepared to let the sound of the gun be the only answer he gave to her question.

"It all started with her, didn't it?"

His eyes popped open involuntarily at the question. Seven simple words, that caused a process in his mind that was anything but simple. Suddenly his mind was flying back in time.

"Would you tell me about her?"

Finally he looked for where the voice was coming from. There, sitting in the corner on a chair just like his own was a little girl, just as he knew there would be, with dark auburn hair and brilliant green eyes that stared at him relentlessly. The innocence he saw there was almost painful.

Slowly the revolver lowered, as if by its own accord. Shakily he rested it back down on the table, his hand visibly trembling as he let go of the polished grip.

It took him several minutes to find his voice, and even then it was little more than a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah...yeah, I could do that."

Suddenly he was no longer sitting there in the run down motel room. Gone was the messed up bed, the stagnant air, the brown haired girl. Suddenly he was back in time, lost in the memories of when life was still worth living.