They could’ve kicked in the door, but knew the gun was still with him, one he’d already used, and so they feared what he’d do. I floated up through the window of the room to the West. I hovered out to the hallway, tried to listen in.
I heard them trying to reason, get him to open the door. His uncle begging and pleading, half collapsed to the floor. He preached of hope and forgiveness. Said: “There is always a chance to rectify what you’ve taken, make your peace in the world.”
I thought to slip through the door. I could’ve entered the room. I felt the burden of murder; it shook the Earth to the core. Felt like the world was collapsing, then we heard him speak:
“Can I still get into Heaven if I kill myself? Can I still get into Heaven if I kill myself? Can I ever forgiven ‘cause I killed that kid? It was an accident. I swear, it wasn’t meant for him. And if I turn it on me? If I even it out? Can I still get in? Or will they send me to Hell? Can I still get into Heaven if I kill myself?”
I left the hotel behind. Don’t wanna know how it ends.
“I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence, and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong.”—Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters (via steiners)