Catching Cold: Vol 1 - Breakthrough

Jon sprawled over the sofa in his small den, remem-bering that his new phone lay unopened on the kitchen table, for going on a full day now. Zonked, he spent the last 18 hours after leaving work moving zombie like through a web of empty electronics. Turned the TV on and off, on and off. Same with the computer. Walked from room to room through the night, sitting five minutes here, forty-five minutes there. Once picked up the phone to call Alora but never dialed. Picked up to call Wild Bill twice, and then once to Dale to apologize. Never dialed those either. Hadn't slept. Hadn't washed. Hadn't eaten. Nothing helped the gersiety, his own mix of anger and anxiety. He knew he had no right to his anger. You're not Breanna’s husband, he thought. Right? Whatever she chooses to do is not your business. Isn't that right, professor? If she wants to flirt with somebody else. Younger Closer to her age. That was not your business. You have no standing, doctor. But he also knew that the Brysons of the world were self-absorbed and fleeting. That young go-getter wanted no part of a women with a marital history. He'd drop her as soon as he got wind of her troubles. But not before he got some of that accountant ass, right Doc? Running his hands through that gorgeous hair that just had to be so soft? Sniffing it. Inhaling her. The two women you care about, you love, being fucked by two different men, while here you sit watching Green Acres on MTV. How would THAT look on your CV, professor? Strapped into a torment ride that wouldn't stop. The punishment pain was biology beyond his reach. Physics that he did not rule. He was incapable of assessing, estimating, to measuring, to fighting. No more, he thought. No more. He walked to the hidden shelf under the bed. Reached to the right in the cranny of the frame for a key. Pulled out the tray. Put in the key. Opened it up. The revolver. Clean. Silver. Waiting. Trusty ammunition right by its side He pulled the tray all of the way out, then lifted it carefully, almost tenderly onto the bed. Picking the gun up he spun the cylinder, watching it twirl with a purpose on its well-oiled mechanism. Siting on the bed, he held a round in his hand, and popping the cylinder open sighted down the chamber seeing A note pad. There on the bedroom table. Leave a note? Hmmm. For who? Alora was gone. Toast. Breanna? She was with Bryson. Why would she care? His stomach rolled. But the others might, right? Robbie? How about Luiz and Dale? The hell with it. And with you, Doctor. Jon chambered the round, then turned the revolver in his right hand until the business end pointed straight at the bridge of his nose. Don’t want to miss. No sir. He’d heard stories. Should be a clean shot, Dead on. Closing his eyes. Gonna hurt through the bridge of my nose, he thought. Just for a moment. And you deserve to hurt. Sweating now, heart wildly pumping in his chest as if it knew these would be its last beats and it wanted to get as many in as possible. Feeling the curve of the trigger. JUST DO IT. Jo–