A Desperate Decision

He held the gun in his hands, the panic stricken sweat from his palms making the rubber grip moist and slippery. The trigger felt more promiscuous than it had felt when he was standing in front of the mirror this morning. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

He stared at the people; random people; strangers; lying on the floor with their hands behind their heads. A small child in her push-chair stared at him smiling innocently. The vision made him sicker than words could describe. He kept seeing his daughter at that age, looking at him and cooing. Closing his eyes briefly and trying to tell himself it wasn’t her, didn’t make the image go away. In fact it seemed to make his gut turn summersaults at twice the speed. The bitter taste of acid hit the back of his throat, as quickly as lighting a match, which was ironic because it felt like it was on fire.

“Get her out!” he said sternly and holding the bridge of his nose. He looked for the mother. She was clearly identifiable as she gripped hold of the bottom of the stroller from where she lay. She was holding it tighter than he had hold of the gun, tears streaming down her face with anxiety. “Get her out of here!” he said again.

The mother stood hastily and running with the push-chair towards the double doors, mouthed the words ‘thank you’ as she passed him.

He’d been out of work for months, after being made redundant from a job he’d been doing for nearly thirty years. He’d spent the last eight weeks struggling to keep himself and his family afloat and had tried everything in his power to keep the roof over his children’s heads. The final red letter had come last week. A single-monthly mortgage payment, within fourteen days or repossession. By day eight of his deadline he’d finally cracked. This was the only way he could think of getting hold of the money.

His wife had left for work, in her new job this morning. He was so proud of her. She looked amazingly smart, for a charity shop suit and blouse. At the same time he’d felt a total let-down; a failure. She hadn’t worked since she’d had their youngest daughter five years ago, but had managed to get a job within a few weeks of applying. He still hadn’t managed to secure one job in the months and months of searching and countless interviews. He was the man of the house, he was supposed to provide for his family. His father would be so disappointed to learn his son wasn’t the man he had brought him up to be. “The man is the bread winner,” he could hear his father say.

The balaclava that hid everything, except his eyes and nose was beginning to itch. A sharp, uncomfortable itch, from cheap man-made material. He always got a hot head when he was nervous. He could feel the heat radiating from the back of his head and beads of sweat rolling down his spine. He continued to point the gun at the cashier as she bagged up the money. He could feel tears in the corner of his eyes as the gun nervously shook in mid air. He held it with two hands to try to steady it, but it felt like he was riding a bike over gravel, jolting in random directions.

He should have listened to his wife more often. Supported her and listened about her new job.

She wasn’t supposed to be the cashier he held then gun at, this afternoon.