Resting Place

Piles of dull beige hay cough up dust as I stagger into the old barn that sits abandoned in the field. My footprints, and the drops of blood I leave behind in the snow, will eventually lead them to me. It’s okay - I’ll be dead by then.

Weak light filters through the windows streaked with dirt high above, illuminating the dust that dances before settling, the only life this barn has seen in a while. The wind whistles, and some of the snow from the storm blows in through gaps in the wood, the feeble structure only blocking out the harshest of the winter chill. I still shiver under my heavy jacket as if I was outside.

This used to be home to farm animals, once upon a time. There are pens on the far side small enough for pigs, and a water trough that has overflowed with a white claw of ice now gripping the metal rim. I limp forward and collapse onto what I think used to be a bail of hay and is now just a heap of straw.

Groaning, I look up at the rafters and beams that hold up this decaying structure, bones that are weary and breaking but keeping the skin in shape. It’s something to focus on so I can forget about the pain that ripples through my entire body from my abdomen.

I don’t have long now.

I wish there was a skylight. It would be nice to be able to see the sky in my final moments. But if I go outside to rest in the snow, I risk them spotting me.

I suck in the sweet smell of the hay. It’s comforting, and reminds me of my days as a boy on the farm. Maybe this is life’s way of coming full circle.

If that’s the case, shouldn’t there be some callback to my youth other than the stale hay that supports me? Our barn was always full of cows, pigs, and horses, snorting and braying, swishing their tails to bat away flies. Warm yellow lights would brighten the place on dark days like today. The light here is long gone, as are the animals.

Maybe I’m the animal. Wounded, slinking away to die alone like an old dog.

It’s better than whatever they'll do to me if they find me alive.

I wonder how they’ll discard my body. Will Betty be upset when she finds out I’m missing, and if my body turns up in a murder investigation? She might be sad, but she has him now. She’ll shed a tear. Light a candle for me. Bring my mom a casserole, the ham and cheddar one she always took to family potlucks. Mom and Dad always knew I’d end up dead in a ditch somewhere, so they’ll move on. They’ve been prepared for this moment since I snuck my first pack of cigarettes from the corner store as a child.

Samuel will play the grieving friend. Maybe he will be grieving.

“I have no choice,” he’d said, right before pulling the trigger, and had the decency to look regretful. “You betrayed me, Marv.”

He wasn’t wrong. I did rat him out to his competitor for some extra cash. But it’s what I do; I fail everybody. It’s what I’m known for, and all I have to look back on. My mistake was betraying a person who had no problem shooting me.

I bet they’ll all speculate on the circumstances of my death. Who shot me? Why did they do it? Was it those damn drug dealers I’m involved with? I wonder what Marv did to deserve this, because let’s face it, he probably deserved it.

I’ve crossed too many people, burned too many bridges in this dinky town. I mean, Sam was my last real friend. And now I have a bullet stuck in my gut, courtesy of him.

I watch the last of the dust I stirred up float through the air above me, catching the dull light. By the time it all falls, I’ll have taken my last breath. At least my remaining few moments will be peaceful; I can find solace in that.

I lift my shaking hand that is pressed against my gut, and sigh as the crimson liquid runs off my fingertips. I’ll leave a stain on the hay and the dirt, like I left a stain on everyone’s lives. That will be my legacy.

My eyelids are getting heavy, and the cold is taking over my bones as the blood pumps from my body. My lungs don’t fill with air the way they should. The only sound is the wind pushing its way into the worn out barn. I let my eyes fall shut, and breathe in the familiar scent of hay.

They won’t find me now. I’ll be gone any second. I wonder if Samuel will be sad he killed me, or just sad he didn’t get to watch me die.

I guess I’ll never find out.

I don’t even remember what my last words were, some swear or curse as the bullet ripped through my flesh. I open my mouth to try something out now, but I’m too weak. I can’t even lift my hand again.

I lie there, bleeding out, waiting for the barn door to open, and hoping it never does.