Joanna Carlyle let loose a guttural sound from deep inside her. The tears followed. Her son John lay dead, by his own hand. Her eyes became fixated on the weapon. She ached to be nearer her son.
She wasn’t sure exactly when she had lost him, but she knew that she had. The two had always been close. Of her three sons, John had been her favorite, although she never let on. He knew.
John had graduated near the top of his class. He had been a charming young man, who came back from the war emotionally hollowed out. Once an effusive, outgoing boy he had become a withdrawn, irritable man.
Joanna had tried to help, but soon realized she couldn’t. Her beautiful boy had his spirit amputated during the war. He was a casualty that never will be reported, but he lost his life nonetheless. As she watched the home videos of a five-year old John playing T-Ball her heart ached inconsolably. She just wanted to hug him.
She raised his gun to her temple. Her eyes were moist as she watched young John cross home plate and then jump for joy. Joanna squeezed the trigger.
As always, her Johnny was looking out for her. He had killed himself with a single shot, and had left an empty chamber. Even though he could not go on, he did not want to hurt others.
Joanna Carlyle pulled her son’s lifeless body to her, and hugged him hard.
