Whiplashed

Things happen when they are not meant to.

There's nothing stopping James from swinging down the axe but his own damn conscience. He is being cheated on, he fucking knows it.

His wife, Lindsay, comforts him in a desperate attempt to prevent the inevitable. She has to, what with the split-second increments in thought.

They are both in the bedroom, only slightly lit by an IKEA lamp, and could only make out the shadows of their bodies as the axe draws closer.

Because Lindsay works as a therapist, she finds a way to comfort James.

He hesitates and sits down. He feels spiritual whiplash, gripping his neck with ferocity and paralyzing him with fear. He feels responsible.

He works as a lumberjack, and would have really done a number on her.

He signals with a glare that he resents Lindsay for her actions. More so, as she had subconsciously understood, he deeply resents himself.

There are no words spoken.

He leaves for a few minutes and returns with a bottle of his finest aged whiskey, two shot glasses, and a revolver. His face shows resignation.

She looks back with a face of dejection. The whiplash is getting to her.

James decides to take the initiative by pouring the whiskey, offering the glass to Lindsay, and promptly downing his own. He fills his glass again.

He eyes the revolver, then the clock on the wall. 15 minutes have passed since he nearly killed his wife, and his despondency has not faded.

He offers his hand to Lindsay, who looks a little more relieved.

They have a brief, passionate kiss and she holds both his hands.

She has not touched her shot.

But a text blurs the lines of what can be called civil. Lindsay's phone lights up briefly, and James suddenly snatches it with a forceful grip.

It is from a "Desmond", and the text reads "Hey baby, is everything okay?"

James looks through their text history.

He then proceeds to throw the phone across the room, shattering it.

Lindsay looks to be in shambles.

Desmond is one of her clients, charismatic and intelligent.

Things would have been better if she had a more active sex life with James.

He takes a big flask, fills it with about one third of the remaining whiskey.

He leaves the loaded revolver.

He also writes a note right before leaving, and hands it to Lindsay.

"Either make the choice for yourself, or let your conscience torment you."

Lindsay now drinks her shot.

Sad, alone, and filled with guilt, she goes on her laptop and sends a message to her closest friend, who happens to know Desmond.

"Tell Desmond he'll forever live with the burden of destroying a marriage."

She then lies on the bed for about half an hour, listening to sad music.

She wonders if other therapists feel like this.

She takes 3 more shots in a row and feels utterly shitty.

Her eyes tear up with regret as she sees herself in the mirror.

She writes another message to her friend, ignoring the replies.

"I'm going to kill myself."

Whiplash makes her grab the revolver and put it to her head.

All the while, James, drunk out of his mind, has been looking for a hooker.

He finds someone on the street corner and takes her to a public bathroom.

Divine whiplash makes him hate the sudden urges.

Satisfied with his revenge, but disappointed in himself, James sulks back.

When he arrives, all he sees is blood on the sheets.

He's drunk, despondent, and drained of any will to live.

He gently holds his wife's dead body and listens to her music.

He then writes a poem on the laptop.

"Woe is me and woe is she,

Woe is everyone who's unfree.

Woe to those who don't know why,

Woe to those who must now die.

Woe is life and woe is pain,

Woe is strife and woe is drain.

Woe to you who reads this piece,

Woe to you who has no peace."

He then sends a mass text on his phone, so that everyone can know.

"My wife and I cheated on each other and are both dead by suicide."

He takes the revolver to his head and pulls the trigger.

Things happen because we allow them to.