CAIN – LOVE, HOPE AND CHARITY
Unforgiving eyes that never turn away in shame. That's what a photograph is. Mine, at least. Relatives I can barely remember, who would not even recall my name, yet still they stare down with merciless disgust. They do not think of me with love, hate or indifference because they simply do not think of me. I no longer exist in the eyes of the outside world. I would tear them down to burn them, but then I would have nothing left. The lights are out. A storm rages on outside, the wind screeches insanely and I am completely detached in my world of candlelit half-light and gloomy precognitions. A before and after shot, before and after the shot. I giggle softly. Would anyone care? Do I know anyone to care? I giggle again. Nervous and insane. It's all over again. I pick up the heavy metal and immediately love its warmth. Just another number in society's death toll. A number no one could name, because no one remembers anymore. If they ever did. My finger curls around the slim band of metal and I feel the pressure. I open my mouth and am pleasantly surprised to find it fitting snugly against the roof of my mouth. Magnum. Like the ice cream, only it doesn't taste like ice cream. I take a deep breath to steady myself, and almost jump out of my skin when a loud buzzing ring suddenly startles me out of my revere. I stare at the telephone as it rings self-importantly with my jaw hanging and my eyes full of disbelief. No one ever calls here. I only have the phone for emergencies. My hand shaking and my resolve nearly broken, I lower the gun to the table and get up to answer the incessant ringing.
It's probably just a wrong number, you're holding onto thin threads of hope I chide myself as I lift the hand piece to my ear.
"Hello?" I mumble, clearing my throat.
"Hi, is Annette there?" a bright, perky female voice asks brightly.
Tears sting my eyes and I already dislike this mystery woman.
"She's dead," I reply hollowly, preparing to hang up.
There is shocked silence on the other end of the line. I pause, hanging on her breath for reasons unknown. An absence of contact can make one desperate. I should write that down.
"She's dead?" the woman whispers, shocked.
"Yes," I answer apathetically. It's a question I've been asked before. And I just don't want to think about the razorblades my sister owned.
"Who are you?" the woman asked, forcing some strength back into her voice.
"Her brother. Greg."
"Oh . . ." she pauses, then lamely adds, "I'm sorry."
I don't know why, but I suddenly have to know the answer to a burning question that didn't matter an instant before.
"What's your name?"
"I . . . Hope."
I have to laugh. Who'll be calling next? Charity? Love? The ghost of Christmas Past?
"What? What is it?" she prompts, sounding vaguely worried.
"Nothing," I reply. Then I realize something. Maybe some things aren't just coincidence. Maybe this isn't just a coincidence. "Are you busy?"
"No," she answers, sounding decidedly surprised. "I'm just waiting for the power to come back on. You?"
"Even less than you," I tell Hope, looking down with shame at the gun on the table. I should put it away.
"What's your address?"
I almost drop the telephone in astonishment.
She continues talking, her words speeding up with her embarrassment at being so brash.
"Well I was just think we could, you know, uh, get together and swap stories about Annette, I knew her in high school . . . or not even talk about her at all! You're her brother so you must be a nice enough person . . . I'm so lonely here!"
I hear myself in her last sentence; I hear the echo of my own thoughts. And this is why I tell her my address.
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Hope says and then hangs up.
I hang up the telephone and hide the gun. Then I wait for Hope.
But Hope does not appear. Not after ten minutes, not after fifteen. Not even after an hour. There is no Hope for me. But I already knew that. Tonight was just an interval between dismal breaths. I get off the couch, with the intention of retrieving the gun. As I stand, the electricity comes back on. All the lights flicker on, as does the television. The scene on the screen causes me to stop momentarily. A dark, rain washed night. There is a reporter speaking in the foreground with a 'live' sign on the corner of the screen in front of her. Behind the reporter I can see a light-coloured hatchback wrapped around an oak tree. Its front is crumpled like an aluminium can and the windscreen has shattered. Smoke still billows up from the engine. I turn up the volume on the television and listen to the reporter speaking.
" . . . The driver of the car, a twenty-four year old woman by the name of Hope Forlorn was killed instantly . . ."