The Life of a Quill: The Taste of Cold Steel
Chambers Full of Memories
Childhood and innocence are as fragile as ancient porcelain. We never truly value it until it shatters; blown to bits by a death, by betrayal, or even some huge, life-changing mistake. Then, and only then, do we stand over what remained of our better years and say that part of me was priceless. Even then we are, as a whole, too slow to collect the pieces and we always end up cutting ourselves on them when we do. Such is the price of shattered innocence.
The world was frozen in a single moment, brilliant and beautiful in its brutality. Quillian trudged into the woods, the weight in his hands feeling heavier by the second. Gone was fear, along with it's companions, regret and sadness. He was determined now, driven by a singular cause, even if that cause was a bleak and lonely one. His black and grey hair kept getting in his eyes, knocked around by the surrounding branches. He groaned in annoyance and cleared his face once more, looking up into the trees as he walked.
Owls hooted their hearts out as he pushed a few loose branches aside with his free hand. The woods and the trees were a familiar sight – a memory within a memory – a place long behind him now dragged to the forefront kicking and screaming. Quillian had never wanted to taint those pristine memories of this place with the stains of his loneliness; his loss; his sins. Now these things were all he had, in a world gone utterly mad. He had fallen from Heaven and fallen hard. The apple of Eden wasn’t one of knowledge, but one of adulthood and pain; of abandoning the paradise that is childhood and embracing the unerring unfairness that is the real world.
His eyes spied the stone behind his grandfather's home, where he and the old man – his Pop – had spent many hours together relaxing after hiking through the woods. In the years following Pop's death Quill had only came back once; leaving a trinket in memory of the happy old man. Now, he knelt, looking up to the stars. It was a place of pleasant memories and present misery now.
"...I don't know if you're watching me. I don't know if there's an afterlife. Hell, I don't even know if there's a God anymore. But if there is, he's got a sicker mind than any person who's ever walked this miserable ball of dirt." Quillian muttered, to no one and everyone. He readjusted himself, taking a seat on the stone. "I fight, and fight, and fight and I keep loosing. I wear a smile on my face so everyone else doesn't feel sorry for me, but I can't keep smiling anymore. I just can't."
Tears stole away the ability to talk. For a few moments, Quillian sat in silence, sobbing. "It's been a long time since I was last here..." He whispered as he recovered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. "Pop... I miss you. I miss the old days." He places a hand on the cold ground, shifting his body so he could lay down. He stared up at the twinkling stars, taking a deep breath. "Back then, life was so simple. None of the world mattered to me, outside my little sphere of influence. It was all so much white noise."
Rolling onto his side, Quillian closed his eyes. "And now here I am, sitting all alone here, talking to myself like a goddamn nut case. You'd be laughing at me if you saw me right now, wouldn't you?" He chuckled – a dry, self-deprecating sound. "You'd be telling me to pick my sorry ass up and go find her. Or go write. To find the guys and apologize. Stop being so lonely and really smile for once. You'd tell me to stop wallowing here and do something, right?"
Quillian sat up, setting the burden in his hand to rest on the ground. Digging into his pocket he pulled out three objects. Rolling them in his palm, he chuckled. "So, how about I do something, then?" He looked at the three items, imagining them as something different from what they really were.
The first he saw was an ornate silver locket, open and displaying her smiling face. Her wreath of brown hair was like some kind of mortal's halo; her blue eyes always shimmered like twin pools of warm, welcoming water. Silken Smile was her name – a girl from Crystal Prep High – and she was the love of his life. He smiled as he remembered her namesake, that silky smile that was infectious to everyone around her. She was a bundle of positive energy, making the whole world seem like a better place. Five years, they had dated; twelve years they had been friends. They had shared the darkest secrets and the brightest miracles. He had wanted for little more than her in his life.
She'd meant so much to him that he'd even picked out a ring. Life had been grand. He had been twenty, on the cusp of adulthood. For once, he had felt complete. Finally, he had felt whole. Slowly, the smile fell from his face...
He remembered the first day she’d stopped talking to him, just over a year ago. He had assumed she was busy and hadn't pestered her about it. He wasn't a clingy young man; at least, he normally wasn't. But by the seventh day of silence, clingy was an understatement. He'd tried e-mails, phone calls, letters; he'd tried everything, except for going to find her himself.
After a month of silence he gave in to his rising panic and drove to Crystal Prep’s sister College to look for Silk. Shockingly, he found her with very little effort, sitting out at the front of the school and laughing with her friends. She hadn't seen him yet, so he stepped back out of her line of sight. Thoughts whirled in his mind; maybe... Maybe there was a good reason for this? Maybe she lost her phone and he didn't have her new number. Yeah, that had to be it.
He braced himself to walk back around the corner, but something gave him pause. Biting his lip, he drew out his cell phone and dialed Silk's number, peeking around the corner to watch her. She held up a hand, pulling her phone out of her pocket. It was ringing. She rolled her eyes and, with an agitated expression, stuck her phone back into her pocket. She waved her hand at her friend, dismissing it as if it was nothing more than an annoyance.
Quillian lowered his phone, feeling nothing. He forced himself to feel nothing. The reality of the situation crashed down on him like a physical weight, bowing his shoulders. He was a logical man and facts never lied. Biting his lip, Quillian turned back towards his car, making certain he wasn't spotted.
Two days later, he learned the reason for the silence. It had shattered his heart.
Back in the present Quillian felt the world reassert itself from his memories. He slid the item into the chamber, turning it twice.
The next object was a pen, small and full of potential. It was plated with sterling steel and was a gift from his father, a skilled writer in his own right. Quillian thought back to the first time he'd seen that pen...
He was still a child – no older than fourteen – and so full of misguided hope. He had decided not a year before that he was going to be an author. He wanted to make books just like the ones he read every day; he wanted to make heroes like the ones in his fantasy novels, heroes who were larger than life and were filled with wonder; he had such grand aspirations for one so young. His father, of whom Quillian rarely saw, had arrived out of nowhere to drop off a gift and give a brief 'Happy Birthday' before vanishing into his own life again, leaving Quillian with his mother.
Yes, it was his birthday; and for once, he didn't care that it was a party of one. His dad had given him a gift! He rushed up into his room, cheering as he carried the precious gift in the air beside him with magic. He tore into the wrapping, smiling broadly once he reached the box. He pulled the cover off and looked inside with an excitement that only a child could muster. Inside was a steel pen; it wouldn't be till years later that recognized it's craftsmanship. At that moment, all he cared about was that it was a gift from his father.
He snatched up the pen, his mother watching with an amused expression from the doorway, as he darted back out of his room – making a bee-line for the desk – and tried it out.
It started with doodling; terrible drawing that he didn't particularly care were terrible. Then, on the second page, he finally got down to some writing. He didn't care what he wrote about. It was whatever was on his mind at the time, without much embelleshment.
He wrote and wrote and when morning rolled around, he woke up, his face in his arms, sitting over his first short story.
His parents had been so proud of him. It was one of his happiest memories. And, in comparison to now, it was just a pipe dream. He couldn't find the passion to write anymore. The words were clogged up in his head and he couldn't get them down onto paper. The cruel truth was, he was a hack. His writing talent only lasted these past six years and now, at twenty-one, he was a failure at the one thing he loved more than anything else.
He thought back to as early as that morning, as he sat among the crumpled piles of papers – hundreds of ideas, terminated before birth. None of them were good enough; not a single one was worth looking at for more than a few seconds. This one was too campy. This one was too cliché. This one was filled with so many inconsistencies, it made him physically ill.
Ruminating on his failures, Quillian slid that memory into the empty chamber, turning it two more times.
He peered down at the third and final memory; a series of steel rings, wound together. It was an art project he'd made with his three friends back in high school, when the world was a lot less complicated. They had all worked hard in the class and with their sweat and toil, they'd produced something that was by no means perfect, but represented their friendship.
Quillian had the real loop sitting in his room back home... Ever since their argument several months ago, none of them had come to retrieve it. Quillian gave a small sigh as he remembering that fight...
"Quill! Open the damn door!" Ace Wind pounded on the door, gritting his teeth. "Stop hiding from us, Quill! We're your friends, man..." The young man was above-average in height, with a shock of brown hair and a scruffy face. " Why're you acting like this?"
He was flanked by two others; a small, meek bookworm with short, tidy hair called Blitz Brain on the left and a scarred, enigmatic young southerner with a partially destroyed eye that had earned him the nickname 'Scar.' His real name – Charles Grin – wasn't that much better.
"Quill, we're worried about you." Blitz said quietly from Ace's side. Of course, no one would be able to hear him, but he always seemed incapable of speaking up. He shifted on his feet, looking up to Ace, who rolled his eyes.
"You're making Blitz worry, Quill. Get out here." Ace pounded again, getting no response.
"Y'all 'r sure he's home?" Grin asked, his accent rolling heavily off his tongue. "Ah reckon we might be shoutin' at an empty house..." He shook his head and walked around the side of the building. "I'm gonna go check the back windows and door. He used ta leave one of 'em them open all the time."
Blitz and Ace stood in relative silence as they waited for Grin. The scarred young man hardly understood boundaries, but sometimes that was for the best. They would simply feign ignorance if any questions were raised, and it wasn't like Grin actually cared what people thought or said about him.
Soon enough they heard Grin call for them. He was standing beside a broken window, motioning them in with his thumb. "Door was locked. Window wasn't."
Blitz gave an exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair before straightening it out again. "Quill's gonna be so pissed..."
"Better pissed than... Whatever he is now. You been able to get a hold of Silk yet?" He looked over to Blitz as he made his way towards the window. Blitz gave him head a small shake. "Still not answering her cell phone, huh? Probably taking care of the brat." He clicked his tongue agitation. "Always had a feeling she'd be no good. She had Quill wrapped around her little finger for years."
Without another word, the three cleared the glass and climbed in through the window. Blitz was the last one through, dusting himself off, as if he’d done something dirty. “We just broke into Quill’s house…”
“Ain’t the first time,” Grin said, grinning his unique grin, " what? He had mah copy of Smokey and Bandit…” he explained in response to their twin expressions of confusion and horror.
“You, good sir, are a walking stereotype,” Ace said with a smirk, looking around. They were in the dining room and kitchen; the two rooms were only separated by the type of flooring used - the kitchen was tile and the dining room was hardwood. The kitchen was a mess, food wrappers and pizza boxes strewn about. Blitz jumped when he almost stepped on Quill’s cat, who was cleaning herself among the garbage. She sauntered over for affection, which Blitz was happy to give.
“Shit, ah’ve known pigs that’ve lived in less filth,” Grin muttered under his breath, opening a pizza box and staring at the petrified leftovers within.
“Quill? You in here?” Ace walked to the door frame that lead to the living room, shouting into the house. “Quill, it’s us. We’re worried about you.”
“Stop shouting. I’m in here.”
Quill was sprawled out on the couch, watching the television. His eyes were glazed and a bottle of liquor, half empty, sat by his side. His clothes were ragged and his face unkempt. His glasses were perched perilously on the end of his nose, threatening to leap to their death at the slightest nudge.
“You ain’t old ‘nough to drink, Quill.”
“Shut the fuck up, Grin,” Quill mumbled in a monotonous tone, bringing the bottle back up to take a swig. “My birthday is in two months so frankly, I don’t give a damn.”
“It’s frankly, my dear, Quill,” Blitz said with a small smile. The two of them always battled about movie references when they were bored or upset.
“You shut the fuck up too, Blitz,” Quill said with about as much enthusiasm as before. “You know I could hear you all, right? There’s a fucking window here, you morons.” Quill turned his blank stare from the television, locking it onto them.
“Wait, we thought your door was keeping you from… If you heard us, why didn’t you let us know?” Ace stepped more into the room, not giving Quill a chance to respond. “We’re worried about you, man. Ever since that stuff with Silk, you’ve-“
“Go away, Ace. You’ve always been damn good at playing blind whenever it suited you, so do me a favor and do it now.” Quill interrupted, taking another long drink. For several seconds, everything was silent, except for the background noise of the television. The four often took jabs at one another, but there was no joking in Quill’s tone now; only malice. “I didn’t answer you three because I want nothing to do with you anymore. I don’t need anyone.”
Grin crossed his arms. “Could’a fooled me. You look like a slob.”
“Think I don’t know? Thing is, you ugly hick, I really don’t have any spare fucks to give.” Quill pushed himself up, ignoring how Grin had bristled with anger. “How I look doesn’t mean shit when I’m alone, does it? I’m not here to dress pretty for you three fucking stooges.”
“You should care about yourself more, Quill. We do.” It was the loudest Blitz had spoken all day. He walked up to Grin’s side, putting a hand on his arm. Grin looked over at him, winding down from his anger.
“You do?” Quill’s tone made it clear that the question was rhetorical. “Like how Silk cared? Like how Dad cared? One was my everything; the other was my damn blood, and they both left. Don’t talk when your mouth is full of lies; it's disgusting.”
“He's not lying, Quill. We’re the four musketeers, remember?” Ace smiled, closing the distance between him and Quill. “We swore that we'd face the world together. That nothing would get in our way.”
“Well, we were stupid, Ace,” Quill snapped, pushing him away firmly. “Life isn’t something you can just push aside. It’s bloody, brutal, and doesn’t give half a damn about what we want. All I wanted was Silk, Ace… And then-” Quill trailed off, his eyes filling with tears. “Just go away. I was fine until you three showed up.”
“Fine? You're livin’ like a pig in yer own filth. Ya smell like a compost heap, look like roadkill, an’ ah’m pretty sure everyone thinks yer dead,” Grin joined Ace, by his side, staring at their friend. “Yer not well, Quill.”
“I’m well enough,” Quill responded, bringing the bottle back to his lips. Ace moved to snatch it away, but Quill leaned back, guzzling more of the drink. “I have my books. My writing. I don’t need people anymore when I’ve got my characters.”
“Oh, you’re over your writer’s block?” Blitz asked hopefully, joining his bolder friends and crossing an unseen threshold into this strange new hell. "That's good news."
Quill tensed, his eyes suddenly going as hard as knives. “Get out. The three of you, get the fuck out of my house!”
“No, Quill.” Ace said, crossing his arms in a mirror of Grin’s stance. “We’re worried and we aren’t leaving until you give us reason not to be. Even if it means staying here overnight. For a week. A month. You’re our brother and we aren’t going anywhere.”
Quill stood, swaying slightly, facing off against his three friends. “You three make me absolutely sick,” he said bluntly, eyes wavering. “You and your misguided ideologies. Your false promises. Your filthy lies!” He tossed the bottle to the side violently. Blitz flinched as it shattered against the wall, spraying alcohol everywhere. “Get the fuck out of my house!”
“Quill, please,” Blitz stepped forward, trembling despite himself. “We’re all so worried about you. I’m worried… Please, just let us help you.”
“Help? You?” Quill laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “You’re a goddamn mouse, Blitz. You’d never be able to help yourself, let alone anyone else. You’ll never survive in the world without us. Hell, you wouldn’t have survived school without us. The bullies would’ve strung you up from the flagpole by your balls if it weren’t for us. You’re a failure at life, Blitz; a failure at everything!”
Ace and Grin were both to shocked to speak. Blitz trembled, tears springing to his eyes. “Quill, you don’t mean it.”
“Oh, I do, you little bitch. We all put up with your bullshit, day after day. You’re a leech, a little fu-”
“Quill, that’s enough!” Ace shouted as he stepped in front of Blitz. Quill hadn’t even noticed that he was physically advancing on the smaller, meeker man.
Quill gave his head a shake, clearing away mental cobwebs, then nodded once. “Yeah, fine. Enough about the mouse; let’s talk about the weasel in the room.” Quill sneered, needing to take a minute to stop the room from spinning.
“...You don’t want to go there, Quill.”
“But I do, Ace. You see, you’re way worse. I mean, I wish I could say that Redneck Quasimodo back there was the worst of you three fuck-ups, but no, you take the cake on that one. Even he's going somewhere with his miserable life.
“You live through others, Ace. You’re a nobody who needs to find validation in the actions of other people. You know you’re going nowhere, so you ride the coattails of the everyone around you, hoping one of them lifts your pathetic little life into some semblance of success. But a worm will always be a worm, except when it’s bait. Are you on a hook, little worm?”
Quill snickered, then turned and pointed at Grin. “And you; you ugly, selfish, miserable sack of horse shit. While you aren’t the worst, I can say with confidence that I hate you the most, for no real reason other than who you are; a huge asshole.”
Grin clenched his fingers onto his forearms, struggling to not snap. Ace was drawn back, eyes wide, staring at his friend in shocked amazement. Blitz was crying now, huddled between his two remaining friends.
“Yeah, I think I’ve made it pretty clear; I hate the three of you. I hate you for everything you’ve failed to do for me. I needed more than kind words and fake sympathy, but that’s what I got and a lot of good that shit did me. It’s bad when alcohol is a better friend than your actual friends.” Quill’s fingers twitched, as if he was regretting throwing the bottle. “Now that that’s settled; get the actual fuck out of my house.”
Grin let out a long breath, his hands loosening their death grip on his arms. “An’ ah’m supposed ta be selfish? Ya hate us fer what we didn’t do for you? Get off that fuckin’ high horse, Quill. Yer a bigger fuck-up than the lot of us an' this here situation proves it.”
Ace stepped out of arm's reach from the two of them, leading Blitz back. He watched with a detached kind of horror as their friendship crumbled to dust and ashes.
Quill snarled, glaring at Grin. “All this situation proves, you hillbilly fuck, is that you three morons can’t take a hint. I don’t want you here. None of you. Get out.”
Grin just grinned, looking as malicious and violent as he always did when he had that look about him. “Nah, what this here situation proves is that yer a little bitch, who can’t handle that some whore cheated on him, got pregnant, and threw him out on his whiny little ass. Betcha still can't write ta save yer life, either.” He lowered his arms to his sides. Ace noticed what Quill didn’t; Grin’s hands forming into fists. “You're a fuckin’ piece of shit, Quill.”
Quill snapped, roaring in anger as he dove across the distance between them. While normally against violence, the alcohol and misery had driven him past the breaking point. He swung for Grin’s face – a pathetic attempt at a punch – but the other man simply dodged to the side, delivering a haymaker that sent Quill to the floor, rolling in pain.
“Come on, guys. We ain’t wanted here.” Ace lurched forward to stop Grin, but wasn’t quick enough to keep him from landing a good, solid kick into Quill’s midsection. Grin turned when prompted, walking towards the door.
Ace looked over his shoulder at Quill, feeling his emotions swirl like a tempest inside his head. Together, the three friends left the house, leaving their shattered friendship dead on the doorstep.
Tears stung Quillian’s eyes back in reality as he stared at this final symbol, the final nail in his coffin. What had he expected of them? Grin was right; he was a piece of shit. Ace and the others were better off without someone like him dragging them all down.
He had avoided the conversation for as long as he could, but the hate had been very real. Not for anything they did, but because they still had each other. For all their flowery words and assurances, Quillian would’ve still been alone, even with them around. Things were better off this way.
He inserted the memory into the final chamber, snapping the item closed with a flick of his wrist. He stared down at it, tears blurring his vision.
It was his Pop's favorite – a 44. Caliber Smith & Weston Model 29; what he’d called The Dirty Harry Special. It was well maintained, even after all this time. Quillian’s Uncle had been granted most of Pop’s possessions; including the house Quillian was behind and where he’d stolen the gun and bullets. He spun the wheel slowly, listening to the soft click as each new chamber aligned with the hammer and barrel. In less than thirty minutes, he was already intimately linked with this thing, as if it had always been a part of him. It was hard to not be linked with the thing that could end your life. It fit in his hand, like a sixth finger, begging to be pointed at the one responsible for all this misery.
Himself. This was his time. Here among these trees, he would either live and be redeemed, or die and the wolves would eat him before anyone found his corpse. No one knew where he was. It had been so long since he’d come here, he was certain no one would think of it. Maybe his Uncle would hear a gunshot, but in this area, gunshots in the woods were almost a common occurrence this time of year; it was hunting season, after all. Quillian had planned it all out. No, he was alone here. Alone, except for Him and the mercy of His will.
Quillian snapped his hand down, spinning the wheel quickly. He closed his eyes, listening to the tat-tat-tat of the spinning wheel, until it clicked itself to a stop. Slowly, he took a deep breath. This had been a long, thought out plan – something he’d devised when he’d finally hit rock bottom. The hammer made a final-sounding click when it locked into place.
The cold steel tasted like nothing Quill could describe in words. Oh, of course it had all those earthy tastes, but at the same time, it tasted like how fire would taste. It tasted like bitter regret. It tasted like redemption.
But, for all his confidence and bluster, Quillian was afraid. He was terrified. He trembled all over, clamped his eyes shut, and wept. He wondered what his mother would do if he didn’t come home. Would they eventually find his corpse, savaged by wild animals and barely recognizable? Or would she go through life being forced to accept that her only child was just… gone? No body. No good-byes. No closure. That was Quillian’s one great regret; that he hadn’t been a better son to her. That he hadn’t been the son she deserved.
With trembling fingers, he eased the trigger down.
... Click...
Breath exploded from Quill’s chest and he fell forward. He threw up then and there, moistening that peaceful place with his last meal. Then he sat back up and spun the wheel again.
Quillian was a man of faith, for the most part. He believed, rather firmly, that when a man died, it was God calling you to His side. Suicide was no ticket to Hell, because if God wished for you to live, you would live. The rope would snap. The poison wouldn’t be enough. You’d be saved before you bled out… or the gun wouldn’t fire.
Yes, there were obvious counterpoints to his theory, such as people who used multiple methods at once to ensure death, but Quillian believed that if you were that desperate, God would welcome you, not scorn you. Claiming that suicide is a sin is simply a deterrent.
But, really, was he out here to die? No, he was out here to maybe die. He was out here to put his life into God’s hands and ask if his time was past; if his life would end with an ellipsis or an exclamation mark; if he could salvage this sham he called an existence.
Finally, the wheel stopped spinning. Once was luck but Quillian wasn’t here to find out if he was lucky. He was here to put his life into God’s hands. His chances were an even fifty-fifty on the first spin, but now the test of His forgiveness truly began. With every spin, Quillian’s odds grew smaller and smaller. His hands trembled and he whimpered, but there were no tears. Quillian drew back the hammer, lifted the gun, and tasted cold steel for the second time.
He pulled the trigger faster this time.
... Click...
This time there was no vomit, but there was a profound sense of loss. As sure as if the chamber had been loaded, a part of Quillian had died. He felt a weight vanish from his chest along with his childhood and innocence, if he had any left to begin with. It was a small price to pay for his salvation.
He spun the wheel again, for the last time. He drew back the hammer with steady hands. This time, he didn’t pause – didn’t hesitate. If he was to die then he’d embrace it. He was already dead, but this was a chance to be reborn anew. This was his one and only chance.
He slid the gun between his teeth, pressing the barrel to the roof of his mouth. He tasted it again, and this time, everything seemed to click into place. He closed his eyes, picturing his mother, and Silk with her little girl, Ace and the guys, the friends who had left him behind. He pictured everyone he cared about and everyone he had ever cared about. A single tear rolled from his eye, slipping down his cheek.
And slowly, very slowly, he pulled the trigger.
Author's Note
So yeah... This.
In truth, this is somewhat based on true events of my life. I did play Russian Roulette with myself, in this exact manner, on the rock beside my Pop's house. I even stole a revolver from his gun cabinet to do it. I survived, obviously. The major differences are that I didn't fight with my friends. Everything else is pretty much accurate, from the writer's block, to my ex getting pregnant, to my Pop dying. There's more to the real-life story, but this covers most of it pretty well.
As is obvious by the story's contents, I was once a man of faith. I've sense changed my ideology, and this Fic in no way, shape, or form, reflects my current religious views. I am not speaking ill of any religion; I just portrayed this as closely to my own mentality at the time as I could, hence Quillian's religious attitude.
All the same, welcome to my darkest hour. Popcorn is advised.
