by Doug Lane
The lake was as quiet as Roger remembered it. He hadn't been there in a dozen years, but the mirrored finish of still waters and the light hum of the first spring insects reminded him why he liked the spot. Ringed pines encircled it like children holding hands. It was nestled in the mountains, secluded at the end of three miles of still-thawing trail. They'd find the car in the parking lot, but his footprints would be gone with the next rain.
He sat beside a flat rock in the soft ground, sank a little. His seat was damp and he found it didn't matter. He tugged the folded slip of paper from his pocket, opened it along the creases, read it for the hundredth time. The words hadn't changed. Malignant inch-wide mass, bulls-eye just left of center, tucked between the Thalamus and the Corpus Callosum as if neatly put away by the maid. Five hundred words on wasting, slow degradation, aphasia, loss of motor skill and memory, coma and death were summed up in a single, final pronouncement: inoperable.
Roger refolded the page and put it back in the jacket pocket, beside his wallet. He'd written a letter to his sister and posted it on his way out of town. She was the most responsible person left to him, and while his decision would hurt her, she would also see to taking care of him. But he found himself phobic about losing the things that made him who he was. There would be no protracted suffering for the people around him, or for himself.
It was a suitable weapon – Smith & Wesson .357, dark as death and heavy in his hand. Fresh from the pawn shop, it stunk of gun oil and a promise. Roger hefted it in his hand, listening to the birds until he reached his point of strongest resolve. He hedged his bets with a prayer. He palmed the grip, thumbed off the safety, cocked the hammer, pressed the barrel under his chin.
Something moved in the corner of his eye as he squeezed the trigger.
Thunder. Light. Pain. Heaven like a tree-ringed lake. Sideways. Pain. Spasming arm stirring dead leaves. Gun in the dirt. Out of reach. Pain. Rustling. By the lake. Black bear. Pain. Skinny. Up from hibernation. Sniffing. Hungry.
Doug Lane believes there's paranoia, and then there's this.
