Ford did not want to kill the man. Absolutely not. He had no intention of wrongdoing to one’s life, but there was something pressing against his conscious, nearly begging him to put forth with the unwanted force that was wrestling with the inner workings of his brain. The gun was loaded, the sweat ran, and the heart pumped. Ford’s index finger hovered over the trigger, teasing it nearly. His opposing force, drenched in blood, sprawled out on the floor, had mistakenly hit Ford’s wife with his car after she had attended a matinee to herself a couple of evenings ago. He, the man driving a 04’ Impala, killed her on spot; her body danced on the red hood before kissing the pavement with her death.

So, there he was, Ford Still, contemplating the 2 choices he faced, and the possible outcomes of both: to kill, or to not kill? Ford ached for revenge, but his logical consciousness was beginning to intervene. Now, being the man behind the gun, he deemed himself a callous and conscious less brute, afraid of what he was capable of. Fear held him in a vice, for he sweat and shook until his bones shook akin to a man of Parkinson’s. Oh, for god’s sake, his mind interjected. Pull the trigger you son of a b****! You’re a man! A grown man!  His mind offered in attempt to ease the fear of guilt. Sweat rushed down his forehead and met his lips, his opposing target begging for his life.

“Please, kind sir, it was an accident! An accident I tell you! I d-didn’t mean to do it, I w-was just driving and she seemed to come out of nowhere. I swear! Please d-don’t shoot!”

It was painfully obvious that this man, name unknown, wanted his life to be spared. Ford, brain still tugging at the idea of murder, had not yet came to realization that the man really was a sorry chap. It was clearly accidental, Ford knew that. But dammit, did he love his wife. Oh, how he missed her dearly. The mere image of his wife being hit by the Impala had made Ford sick to his stomach, dropping the gun as he threw up, spontaneously almost, onto the floor.

“Just go.” Ford said to the bloody man in between sobs and bouts of throwing up his lunch, hunched over in fetal position. “Just go! Go!” The words seemed to send the man lurching towards the door as if a starting gun had been shot. “Get ouuuuttttttttt!” Ford screamed as the man made his way sprinting down the street, covered in blood and anguish.

Ford Still had killed himself that evening, for he could not bear the unmeasurable pain of losing his wife. Ford Still lied on the hardwood floor, dead, eyes open, blood secreting from the gunshot wound on the side of his head. Blood from the beating of the man he let go lie beside him, still wet. Ford Still, the man who always played by the rules. Ford Still, the man who only had love for a woman who was killed by a reckless driver deemed innocent. Ford Still, the man who had lived his whole life as a collection of law-abiding series of days, months, and years. Ford Still, the man who had killed himself on the night of December 10th and sent his soul into oblivion.

Ford Still.