Henry was twenty-one, only two years older than myself, and we had been together for two years. He was at a gas station convenience store, buying me flowers and sour gummy worms to celebrate as he had done years before. As he approached the check-out counter, a masked man came in to rob the small store. Henry, only wanting to bring peace, asked him to set down the pistol and stop-that what he was doing was wrong. The masked man raised his gun instead and squeezed his finger tight around the trigger. My love fell to the ground, a crumpled mess.
That's what the police told me as they replayed the store's security camera footage to me.
It happened the first day of twenty-ten. I wish I could restart that day.
It's been a year now, and I still don't sleep a single night without that gunshot sounding in my mind.
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This is the kind of thing that I get inspired to write. I think up a lot of short stories. I also think up a lot of possible plots for story ideas, most which get stuck into my hypothetical back-pocket, hypothetically forgotten, thrown in the hypothetical wash, and hypothetically lost forever. If I ever get time to get on the computer before my ideas run out, maybe I'll put my ideas here. I might make it a thing. Meh.
Strange how I think up such a tragic story when I think about the New Year. I guess it kind of tells you a little more about me. Yeah, I might make this a thing. Maybe.
It is not actually strange that you might think of tragedy at the idea of a new year. Most people do. The new year signifies a new beginning, which makes us think of the things lost, or stories ended. Also, I like Henry. He has courage. But in hindsight, maybe he should have kept quite.
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