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The Transition

The minute Gerard arrived at his suburban home he knew something was amiss. The front door was partially open even though the air-conditioner was running. Candace, his wife, usually waited for him at or near that door every day. If she was out, she normally left a note taped to the door. At times like these Gerard's worst fears surfaced. One always thinks of gruesome things like muggings, burglary, traffic accidents, you name it. At this moment he sincerely hoped it wasn't one of these. He hoped nothing serious was wrong. "Please, God, spare me; give me more time before it all comes crashing down," he prayed silently. After searching downstairs to no avail, Gerard began the trek upstairs. Now he was learning what it was like to be afraid in your own home. Castle, they say. A man's home is his castle. Gerard found Candace in the bedroom. She was sitting up in bed. Lipstick was smeared all across her lower face. One boob was hanging out her pajama top. She didn't smile, but spoke:

"Who are you? Why are you in my house?" she said as she reached for her phone.

"Honey," Gerard said but stopped. He knew his loaded .38 was in the drawer of the night table. Did she remember? Had she taken it out? She was calling 911. "Uh, I'd better leave," he said and started backing out of the room." If the police were coming over, he'd let them figure out how to get the gun. You can't help your wife if you're dead.

Story by:

Randall Barfield

submitted at 5:35pm

20 March 2009

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