Creative Writing Piece 2

He opened his eyes and checked the clock, it was 4:45am. It was dark outside his window, but he rose out of bed and began to get dressed. He walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. As he ran his hands over his face he felt his short, unkempt beard. He thought about shaving it, but realized it really didn’t matter. He went to the kitchen and looked at the calendar, it was March 17th. As he put on his boots he stared at the photo pinned to his refrigerator. It had been creased down the center so many times that the photo had faded away completely leaving a white vertical line down the center. He got up, walked over to the counter, opened the drawer directly next to the refrigerator, and grabbed the pistol. He grabbed his fishing gear, threw the gun in the bait box, and went to the door. He stopped. He turned around, walked back to the refrigerator, took the picture, folded it down the middle, and put it in his chest pocket. Then he went back to the door and left for the lake. The air was damp and cool as he walked down the wooded path towards the lake, it had been raining all week, which was alright with him because he liked the smell of rain. As he walked through the woods he listened to the sound of his feet in the mud. He counted his steps along the way as it was still too dark to see properly. Three-hundred and sixty-four days. For three-hundred and sixty-four days he had walked this same path, in the same boots, to the same lake, with the same gun. He reached the dock, unwrapped the rope holding the small aluminum fishing boat, and hopped in. He left the motor up and decided to row his way into the middle of the lake. Except for the soft dragging of the paddle through the water, it was completely silent. He enjoyed the silence; somehow it seemed fitting. Once he was out in the middle of the lake he stopped rowing. He opened up the bait box and looked at the gun. It was small .22 caliber six-shooter. He picked it up and opened the cartridge. All six bullets sat in place untouched. He set the gun next to him on the bench and baited his fishing line. His fishing rod made a quiet whir as he cast his line out into the water. He sat there the same way he had three-hundred sixty-four days in a row and waited. In three-hundred and sixty-four days he had done the same thing the same way every morning, but in three-hundred and sixty-four days he never brought the picture. He pulled it out of his front pocket and looked at it. He had seen this photo every day, but he had never looked at it like this before. The picture showed a young girl standing with a man. She had blond hair and green eyes. She was wearing a pink floral dress with no shoes. The man next to her had light brown hair and was wearing a tuxedo. He was looking down at her smiling while she was looking down at her toes. Both of their arms were extended towards each other, but the picture had faded where their hands would’ve met. He looked at the bottom corner of the picture and where the scribbled handwriting wrote, 3/18/07. One teardrop fell onto the photo, then another, and another, and then he felt them all around him. It had started raining again and as he sat crying he placed the photo over his heart. He grabbed the gun next to him and placed the barrel on his chest over the photo directly where their hands would’ve met. Three-hundred and sixty four days. He pulled the trigger.