By Jonathan Urban

Copyright March 9, 2000

Life...what is it? You are born; you grow up in a family--if you are fortunate enough to have one. You fall in love, get married, have children, and then they have children--you become old and die--what does one achieve in life?

These are the questions that plagued Ron More. Ron was a man in his mid forties, graying hair, and sad blue eyes--a one-time entrepreneur--now a complete failure. He had nothing to show for his forty some years, or at least that was his present state of mind, as his eyes focused on the gun in his hand.

It was a fine work of craftsmanship as he caressed it along the barrel. The man who invented the first gun--now he had a legacy, something revolutionary that he achieved. Something that changed the course of human affairs, for better or worse. What would Ron More leave behind...debts...debts...and more debts. He seriously wondered if anyone would miss him if he just put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. In fact, that was exactly what he was going to do. With a quick reflex, he put the gun to his temple...

He couldn't pull the trigger. He began to cry, then placed the gun on the table--still admiring the ingenuity of it. He poured himself some Jack Daniels and drank it down with a few sips. He laughed inside himself--why couldn't he pull the trigger? Was it some built-in unconscious life preservation mode his body went into? No he doubted it, he was very ready to end his misery. Perhaps after a few more drinks he would be able.

Ron thought of Ellen--poor Ellen, the only true love of his life. Maybe she would miss him if he were gone--doubtful--she was recently married, or so he had been told. If only he had told her how he really felt about her and had not been a jerk. The last time they were together--the night she told him she was getting married, they argued. He said things he wished he could take back. Sensitivity would of gone a lot further. No looking back on that, thought Ron.

He never had married--though his sex life had always been priority one. All of those women he had had flings with meant nothing other than sex--it was never making love. How he wished he could take those back, he cried again. He looked at the gun again, its dark shiny look was enticing--it would be quick and painless.

He thought of the all the money he had made, and then lost in gambling--his hand reached for the gun slowly. Thoughts of the women he had screwed, but not loved, filled his mind--his hand moved closer and touched the gun. Ron had always wanted a wife and children--but only with Ellen, his true love--too late for that. He picked the gun up and pointed it to his head. It felt hard and cold on his temple. No turning back he thought now.

He took a deep breath, felt the trigger move, and then blackness...


The police arrived on the scene the following evening, not long after the gunshot was heard by the superintendent. Today was mere cleanup and the continuing investigation, since no suicide letter had been left. The police detective was walking around the apartment, careful what he touched. They had taped up most of the crucial stuff, to be fingerprinted, and to keep people away.

The detective heard one of the other officers arguing with someone at the front door. "Sam, who is it?"

"This lady said she knew the deceased."

"Take her statement Sam, I'll be over there in a minute."

Sam had the lady sit down on a chair that had not been covered. "Ok, what is your name Miss?"

"Ellen Forester."

"Ellen, what was your relationship to Mr. More?"

"We were good friends. I love with him...I couldn't go through with the marriage to Jack and I thought I would come over last night and make up with Ron, but...never made it...I thought he wouldn't want to see me."