THE CURTAIN..THE CURTAIN..TOO LATE THE CURTAIN by Henry P. Gravelle

The curtain--- the curtain--- too late the curtain!

At the epicenter of his career, full of wealth and promise, Marty Brinkman tapped on his wife Susan’s arm resting comfortably on the seat next to his. He smiled when she turned to him and said he was sorry, although he failed to mention his on-going loss of reality, he was still sorry it had brought him to this.

Oh, it had been mentioned in sessions with Dr. Rudy, a terminal bore of a man, Marty thought, but astute all the same. He envisioned this day, even fore told my destiny; he knew I was nuts.

Excess! That was the key to my downfall, my insanity. Yet am I insane? I recognize my thoughts, am cognizant of my actions and believe I am correct in judgment; I am a stable guy; I sense no wrong in my actions - the hell with all of it because I am not to be swayed from my decision. The time has come and excess cannot sway my logic, sane or not. I blame excess, yes, too much of a good thing, a horn of plenty with a bottomless supply of currency, yet not enough… enough what; time to spend it on people to impress, material goodies, real estate, Treasury certificates to horde... what? Ah, yes, Marty frowned remembering the root of his dilemma, Time and money, a dangerous concoction; a mixture of certain lunacy that brews corruption and unhappiness through a cesspool of crime and drugs.

A tear fell from Marty’s eye and dribbled across his cheek as denial refused to step into his deranged mind. He knew the cause of his pending indictment, the dishonor and upcoming embarrassment to family, friends and colleagues alike. Crime and drugs, murder and death, a waste of wealth, waste of life… If only he had seen the signs and sought help sooner, before losing it all to his demons. It was time, time to pay the piper.

Susan appeared confused as he stood; his form visible to the entire five hundred seat auditorium. Several of the onstage cast also spied Marty’s strange presence during their musical yet continued within the script. His wife gently took hold of his arm, wondering aloud of his actions. Whereas Marty, now smiling widely at the unmoving throng seated in anxious concern behind him, jerked away from his wife’s grasp, and, from his blue blazer inside jacket pocket, produced a chrome Smith and Wesson snub nose .38-caliber revolver with six hollow point cartridges snuggly seated within the cylinder.

Once again Marty smiled proudly at his wife of twelve years, the mother of his two children, the love of his life; aimed the gun at her forehead and fired. Before the resonance of the shot finished echoing throughout the hall, along with the collective gasps from a startled five hundred horrified witnesses, Marty placed the muzzle against his temple, waved to no one in particular, and fired again. The suicide/murder was complete. The lights dimmed, the curtain brought down.


Henry P. Gravelle
http://www.henrygravelle.com/