Elizabeth McKennedy's work has been published in journals including McSweeney's, Metazen, and The Story Garden.

End's Beginning (March 20, 2011. Issue 26. The SLAM & FLASH Issue!)

I’m standing outside the closet, waiting. The last thing I say to him is "Yes," but I can never remember what that last thing was that he asked. As he raises the gun back to his head and tells me, "You did this," even in my dream I don't think he'll do it. Even in my dream I’m almost wishing he would. Then I stand before him as the gun goes off and blood sprays from the side of his head. I see his face, contorted in rage. He's falling and I start to scream, I run, I slam the door, I go back to the 911 operator who heard everything. "He shot himself!" I scream into her ear, and I slam down the phone, because the only thing I know right now is that there will be trouble. Someone has just died or maybe not, and it wasn't my fault, not completely, and no matter how hard I try, I can't wake up, because it will never be a dream.

The first person I call doesn't answer when I scream for help. The second person I call keeps asking if he's dead. "I don't know, I don't know." And I’m afraid because I assumed that he would be. I’m afraid of him lying in there hurt, I’m afraid of him crawling out and killing me for doing this to him. I’m afraid the worst happened after I ran out, and I want to go hold his hand and tell him I’m sorry. I want to go in there and lie to him and tell him I love him just so he won't die alone. But my baby is there with me and he's afraid. He's three years old and he keeps saying that his daddy shot himself. Surely he doesn't know what that means. I hope.

The police come in with their guns drawn. They're pointed at me and I don't care. This is not the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me tonight, and I can't think clearly enough to be afraid that I could be shot, to think that I might accidentally jump, that they might shoot and kill me and my child. Maybe I’m already dead. Maybe that's why I don't care; maybe that's why I don't have sense enough to be afraid.

I tell them where he is and that I think he's dead. They move toward the closet and they're shouting at him to put his gun down, put his gun down, and I think he must be alive until they come to the door. They stop shouting and start talking to him as if he's a child. I need to see him but I don't want to see him like that. They take me outside because they have to take pictures and I’m holding my baby so tight he can barely breathe.

I ask them outside if he's still alive and they tell me he is. EMS is on the way, they tell me. I think I’m in trouble because they keep asking me what happened, they read me Miranda. But they let me get out of the car. They let me stand up, walk around, they let me smoke. They ask me what happened again and again.

The detective this time needs to ask me what happened. They're all taking notes. He says that I am under no suspicion, that I did nothing wrong. I ask him, but do I really want to know? "Is he going to be okay? Where is EMS?"

No ma'am, he tells me. He's dead.

And then I think that I can cry, because then I know. I want to cry. I try. Seven years, I tell the detective, and he writes that down too. I don’t ask if he was suffering. I don't think to ask to see him, to say goodbye. Even after people start to leave I’m still waiting there, in the back of a police car, holding my baby.

The deputy takes me for a drive when they move the body, so the baby boy doesn't have to see it. I know this is best even though I want to kiss his smiling bag and tell it I’m sorry. When I get back almost everyone is gone and they tell me there will be an autopsy, I will have to call the morgue tomorrow morning. They will do the autopsy around lunchtime, the coroner says, and I laugh because those words together don't fit.

They don't offer to drive me home. I don't know where home is anymore, but I drive, too slow, and too fast, because I know they won't pull me over tonight. My baby is still screaming. He wants to go back in and see Daddy, but all that's left is Daddy's blood and maybe the way he used to smell when he was alive, just hours ago. "We can't see Daddy now," I tell my baby, my fatherless child. And I want to tell him he can never see Daddy again, but I don't know how.

I drive in a haze to meet my parents. They've been driving all this time, they're taking the baby. He's been through enough, and I don't know what will happen now. I see my mom walking across the parking lot, and when we meet we both can cry. I cry not knowing why, because even though I know it, I don't believe it.

I share something now with my mother and no one knows what it is. Now is when I know she loves me. Now is when we understand each other. The first time and maybe the last, but for now, we both understand, and she holds me up and I cry. My dad holds me up too, and I wonder if I should hold him up instead, but I just let him hold me up, and my grandparents come and hold me up too. Five of them now are holding me up and my baby is sleeping. Some are crying, but I am not. Every time I cry it will be just for a minute, because I saw someone die, and all I can see when I think of him is blood.

Maybe I’m awake now, maybe asleep. Months later, I'll still be wondering.