A Single Bullet
Mercelo Medone
Many years have passed, but I remember every detail as if it were yesterday. Some things remain etched in your mind for life.
I had just turned thirteen and Louise eight. We didn't see misfortune coming and neither did Dad. Until that moment, in my childish mind, Mom was the best mother in the world.
“Johnny, take good care of your sister,” she told me with her most charming and perfect smile.
I was about to cry and beg her not to leave us, but my pride got the better of me and I stood stoically, letting her caress me like a mannequin. Louise was sobbing.
“You won't lack anything; Dad is a hard worker. I need to live my life. I will always carry you in my heart,” she told us like a professional actress. The last thing she did was give each of us a kiss on the forehead and run down the ten steps to the sidewalk, where her manager was waiting for her in a car loaded with suitcases. Surely, they would leave for Hollywood.
That day Dad started drinking. He locked himself in his room, which was now more spacious, and drank whiskey without ice, even on summer days. He kept the whiskey in the closet where Mom had accumulated dozens of dresses and shoes that she would one day wear to a glamorous party. Papa had always indulged her tastes. He now had plenty of free space to stack bottle crates.
Despite his increasingly frequent drunkenness, Dad never lacked work as a journalist and writer. When he was sober, he would spend hours on his computer writing his columns for various newspapers and magazines. He had a refined style, full of technical details and baroque words, the result of years of reading and a prodigious memory. His publishers said he had just the right touch of erudition that his readership liked, which didn't seem like a convincing compliment, but it paid the bills.
The few times Dad left the house, I took the opportunity to go into his room. I would open the dresser drawer and pull out the .38 revolver that he kept under his shirts. For some strange reason, the revolver always had only one bullet. I never found an ammo box, either. I think Dad kept it as an amulet.
So, I'd pick up the revolver, spin the cylinder like I was about to play Russian roulette, and stand in front of the big mirror in the dressing room and pretend I was Robert De Niro's character in Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. Dad loved that movie and would tell me about the wonders of the script. I had watched it several times in my room and was dazzled by that redeeming violence of that taxi driver, ready to cleanse the streets of New York of all that is bad. I imagined him as a vigilante that was going to find Mom and bring her back home at gunpoint. But my fantasies were nothing more than acting in front of Dad's mirror.
I never dared to shoot the revolver.
The years passed and we learned to live without Mom. Dad never brought home any other women or told us about his intimate life. When Louise asked if he wasn't going to get a new girlfriend, Dad coughed uncomfortably and changed the subject.
One day, I noticed that there were no more bottles in the dresser or anywhere else in the house. Dad seemed to be more cheerful and active than ever.
“I have some good news for you,” she told Louise and me.
“If you're going to tell us that you have a secret girlfriend and that you're getting married, you're going to have to wait for me to get married first,” Louise told him, laughing. Louise didn't even have a boyfriend. I had just turned seventeen and already wanted to leave home.
He looked at us baffled and smiled.
“It's not about that. It's my work. They offered me the direction of a magazine. It is a face-to-face job, very well paid. But we have to move out of town.”
We never moved out.
A week later, Dad had a heart attack and was hospitalized.
Someone managed to locate Mom and tell her about Dad. It seems that she had not become the big movie star that she expected, but that she was not doing so badly acting. Anyway, she managed to show up at the hospital, arm in arm with her old manager.
When Louise saw her, she was furious and was about to throw her out of there. Mom, undeterred, verified that Dad was intubated and unconscious, looked at him with a pitying expression and disappeared, as was her specialty.
A few hours later, Dad passed away. Louise and I hugged each other and cried for a long time.
“Don't worry; we'll get through this. I'm eighteen now,” I said, assuming my role as the older brother as usual. Truthfully, I didn't know how I was going to do it. I felt overwhelmed by the events.
That night when I got home, I went into Dad's room and opened his dresser drawer. I took the revolver and checked it: it had a single bullet, as always. I spun the cylinder, like an automaton.
I planted myself in front of the mirror, raised the revolver, trembling, and rested the barrel against my temple, with my most perfect expression of terror. I pulled the trigger and felt the clack of the hammer hit the empty cylinder.
At that moment, I smiled while I caressed with the fingers of my other hand the bullet that I had extracted from the revolver.
I knew that the world would surrender at my feet and that I would be free to decide my destiny. I could act too, like Mom.
I left everything in its place as it was before and got ready to go to my father's wake.
~ ~ ~
Sept 2026
Mercelo Medone
Many years have passed, but I remember every detail as if it were yesterday. Some things remain etched in your mind for life.
I had just turned thirteen and Louise eight. We didn't see misfortune coming and neither did Dad. Until that moment, in my childish mind, Mom was the best mother in the world.
“Johnny, take good care of your sister,” she told me with her most charming and perfect smile.
I was about to cry and beg her not to leave us, but my pride got the better of me and I stood stoically, letting her caress me like a mannequin. Louise was sobbing.
“You won't lack anything; Dad is a hard worker. I need to live my life. I will always carry you in my heart,” she told us like a professional actress. The last thing she did was give each of us a kiss on the forehead and run down the ten steps to the sidewalk, where her manager was waiting for her in a car loaded with suitcases. Surely, they would leave for Hollywood.
That day Dad started drinking. He locked himself in his room, which was now more spacious, and drank whiskey without ice, even on summer days. He kept the whiskey in the closet where Mom had accumulated dozens of dresses and shoes that she would one day wear to a glamorous party. Papa had always indulged her tastes. He now had plenty of free space to stack bottle crates.
Despite his increasingly frequent drunkenness, Dad never lacked work as a journalist and writer. When he was sober, he would spend hours on his computer writing his columns for various newspapers and magazines. He had a refined style, full of technical details and baroque words, the result of years of reading and a prodigious memory. His publishers said he had just the right touch of erudition that his readership liked, which didn't seem like a convincing compliment, but it paid the bills.
The few times Dad left the house, I took the opportunity to go into his room. I would open the dresser drawer and pull out the .38 revolver that he kept under his shirts. For some strange reason, the revolver always had only one bullet. I never found an ammo box, either. I think Dad kept it as an amulet.
So, I'd pick up the revolver, spin the cylinder like I was about to play Russian roulette, and stand in front of the big mirror in the dressing room and pretend I was Robert De Niro's character in Scorsese’s Taxi Driver. Dad loved that movie and would tell me about the wonders of the script. I had watched it several times in my room and was dazzled by that redeeming violence of that taxi driver, ready to cleanse the streets of New York of all that is bad. I imagined him as a vigilante that was going to find Mom and bring her back home at gunpoint. But my fantasies were nothing more than acting in front of Dad's mirror.
I never dared to shoot the revolver.
The years passed and we learned to live without Mom. Dad never brought home any other women or told us about his intimate life. When Louise asked if he wasn't going to get a new girlfriend, Dad coughed uncomfortably and changed the subject.
One day, I noticed that there were no more bottles in the dresser or anywhere else in the house. Dad seemed to be more cheerful and active than ever.
“I have some good news for you,” she told Louise and me.
“If you're going to tell us that you have a secret girlfriend and that you're getting married, you're going to have to wait for me to get married first,” Louise told him, laughing. Louise didn't even have a boyfriend. I had just turned seventeen and already wanted to leave home.
He looked at us baffled and smiled.
“It's not about that. It's my work. They offered me the direction of a magazine. It is a face-to-face job, very well paid. But we have to move out of town.”
We never moved out.
A week later, Dad had a heart attack and was hospitalized.
Someone managed to locate Mom and tell her about Dad. It seems that she had not become the big movie star that she expected, but that she was not doing so badly acting. Anyway, she managed to show up at the hospital, arm in arm with her old manager.
When Louise saw her, she was furious and was about to throw her out of there. Mom, undeterred, verified that Dad was intubated and unconscious, looked at him with a pitying expression and disappeared, as was her specialty.
A few hours later, Dad passed away. Louise and I hugged each other and cried for a long time.
“Don't worry; we'll get through this. I'm eighteen now,” I said, assuming my role as the older brother as usual. Truthfully, I didn't know how I was going to do it. I felt overwhelmed by the events.
That night when I got home, I went into Dad's room and opened his dresser drawer. I took the revolver and checked it: it had a single bullet, as always. I spun the cylinder, like an automaton.
I planted myself in front of the mirror, raised the revolver, trembling, and rested the barrel against my temple, with my most perfect expression of terror. I pulled the trigger and felt the clack of the hammer hit the empty cylinder.
At that moment, I smiled while I caressed with the fingers of my other hand the bullet that I had extracted from the revolver.
I knew that the world would surrender at my feet and that I would be free to decide my destiny. I could act too, like Mom.
I left everything in its place as it was before and got ready to go to my father's wake.
~ ~ ~
Sept 2026
