The Demise (10 page)

The gun that he gripped in his palm was the only thing he could rely on to end his suffering. He had been holding it so tightly that his fingers felt numb. He felt his jaw quiver from the flood of sorrow that overwhelmed him and he clenched his teeth to stop himself from losing it. He hadn't cried. He had fought the urge to. He was supposed to be strong. He was supposed to stand tall. He had survived so much: The death of his mother. The streets. The Haitians. Miamor's disappearance from his life years ago. All of these things had formed the fire that he was forged from. He was boss. He was untouchable … only he
had
been touched. He had given his enemies a way to touch him as soon as he had planted his seed inside of the woman he loved. If he was truthful with himself, he had developed a weakness the day he had met Miamor. To create a little person who was made up of him plus her was perfection. It was love in its purest form, and losing that had destroyed him. These breaths that ached in his soul no longer felt worth it. He lifted the gun slightly and then placed it back on his thigh, his hand never leaving it. He gritted his teeth, lifted the gun, tears filling his eyes. He didn't blink as he brought the weapon to his temple. Those painful breaths had stopped. He realized he was holding it. The weight of the decision he had just made caused his shoulders to hang as his finger curled around the trigger.

Life wasn't supposed to feel like this. He wasn't afraid to die. His worst fear had already come to fruition. Every story had an ending. There wasn't another man alive who could do what he was about to. End him. He was all G. Men of men. King of kings. If he wanted this all to end today, then he would have to do it himself because no other man had been successful at taking him out of the game. His demise would be at his own hands and then he could finally reunite with his son. “God save my soul,” he whispered.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

The unexpected sound at his door saved him from curling his finger on the trigger. He looked up, confused. No one knew where he was. He had purchased a magnificent chalet in the mountains of Colorado. It was secluded on all sides by dense forest, and his nearest neighbor was a mile down the only road that led into the mountains.

He went to the door, opening it cautiously.

Zyir stood, cupping his hands in front of his face, blowing hot air into them as he shifted from foot to foot.

“What up, Carter? What's going on in here, G?” Zyir asked, immediately noticing the mist in Carter's eyes and the gun in his hand. Carter's scruffy appearance threw Zyir. He was usually clean-cut and shaven, but today he was rough, the makings of a thick five-o'clock shadow coming in. His clothes were wrinkled as if he hadn't changed in days. His eyes were dark, with circles underneath.

Carter retreated into the cabin, and Zyir followed him, looking around the immaculate home. His brow creased in concern when he saw the empty cognac bottle. “Where the gunfight?” Zyir asked, treading lightly with his words.

“No fight, fam. Done fighting,” Carter replied. The sadness in his voice and the double entendre behind his words told a story all their own. “You know what it's for,” Carter admitted as he walked over to his bar and took another bottle of brown down. This time he opted for a glass. He tossed one to Zyir, who caught it out of midair with ease.

“Nah, it ain't for that,” Zyir replied. “We built stronger than that, fam. I'mma have this drink with you, though, so you can work that shit out, but I'm your friend, Carter. I ain't too comfortable with the way you looking. I'd be more comfortable if you put the gun up.”

“How did you find me?” Carter asked, respecting the request. He kept the gun tucked in his waistline.

“You talked for years about retiring in a big cabin in the mountains. This was the dream, bruh. Now it looks like it's become your nightmare,” Zyir admitted.

“Hmm,” Carter replied. He walked up to Zyir and poured his drink before pouring his own and taking a seat. He was defeated. They both knew it. He wore his heart on his sleeve. His eyes couldn't conceal his torment.

“I just got to end this shit, Zy. I ain't never felt no shit like this,” Carter whispered. This time he knew it was useless. His pain rolled down his face in clear liquid pools of emotion.

He leaned over, his elbows resting on his thighs as his head hung low. Zyir's stomach twisted. Carter was breathing, but he wasn't living. He was stagnant. Buried under unresolved grief. In all their years of friendship, Zyir had never seen Carter weak. Zyir's conscience weighed heavily on him. He was bringing trouble to Carter's door and he already had enough of his own.

“Time heals, big homie,” Zyir said. “You've got to just endure.”

“Time won't heal this wound, Zy,” Carter replied. “There's only one person in the world who can relate to this weight I'm carrying.”

“Have you talked to her?” Zyir asked, knowing that he was speaking of Miamor.

“I can't talk to her,” Carter said. “That's over.” The finality in his tone was shocking. He knew he was half a man without Miamor. It was another thing that plagued his heart. She was his Eve. His curse. She could talk Carter into biting the forbidden apple on her worst day. No, she brought destruction to his life. He couldn't lean on her for support. He never knew how much he had until it was no longer. He envied the working man with the average family. That man got to go home to his wife and his child every night. The type of man he had chosen to be dug early graves for the ones he loved. Being the king was a gift and a curse.

“I know it's—”

“No offense, Zyir, but you don't know shit,” Carter said.

If Zyir had seen it coming, he would have reacted faster. He would have taken the gun, but it had all happened so fast. It was like a light clicked off in Carter's eyes and Zyir watched as Carter brought the gun from his waistline. Zyir lunged, tackling Carter, but the loud bang in his ear let him know he hadn't stopped anything.

Red. Blood. On his hands, on the floor.

“No!” Zyir shouted. “What did you do?! Fuck!” Carter's eyes were still open, but blood covered one side of his face. He groaned. “Bro, stay with me, Carter! You gon' be good, baby. You gon' be good.” Zyir pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed 911. Before the operator could even ask him his emergency he shouted, “I need an ambulance. Now!” He kept the call connected so the operator could trace their location. He realized his face was wet and wiped his face with the back of his hand to find that it was his own tears. “Just hold on, fam. They coming for you, man. They coming. They coming.”

*   *   *

Zyir sat in the waiting room, rubbing his hands together anxiously as he leaned over in his seat. He hadn't called anyone. Not Miamor, not Monroe, not even Breeze. He didn't know how to tell them what he had just witnessed. Never in his life did he feel such stress. He was sick. Carter had tried to end his own life. Damn. Shit was bad. He had been waiting for hours. Carter's blood had dried to a dirty brown on his clothes, but he didn't care. He wasn't leaving until he knew his friend would be okay. It wasn't until this night that he realized how deep their bond ran. They were brothers—not by blood, but the love was just as strong, and to lose Carter would be like losing a piece of himself. Carter was the one who had taught him how to be a man. He taught him how to get money and how to weed out the snakes. He ingrained in him that family came first.
Damn, big homie,
Zyir thought as he shook his head in disgrace.

Carter's doctor walked into the room, and Zyir tried to read his expression. Was it grim, hopeful? Zyir couldn't tell. He stood. “Is he…”

“The bullet grazed his left temple. It's a pretty deep graze, but the bullet didn't penetrate,” the doctor explained.

“Why was there so much blood?” Zyir questioned.

“Any gunshot wound is going to give you profuse bleeding. He lost quite a bit, but we gave him a transfusion and treated the wound.”

“So he's good?” Zyir asked in disbelief. He'd seen the blood with his own eyes. He'd heard the shot.

“He will be. He is very lucky. A fraction of an inch to the right and it would have killed him,” the doctor said.

Zyir watched the doctor begin to walk away and stopped him. “Doc, I want to make sure something like this doesn't happen again.”

“We have a counselor set up to speak with Mr. Jones as soon as he is awake,” the doctor informed him.

“Nah, we need a little bit more than that,” Zyir admitted, his chest feeling hollow as he thought, devastated by the night's circumstance.

“What did you have in mind?”

*   *   *

The world came into focus as Carter's eyes opened. He grimaced as he felt an intense pressure in his head. “Hmm,” he groaned as he attempted to sit up. He tried to turn on his side, but was halted when he felt his left wrist jerk in restraint. For the first time he noticed that he was bound to the bed. His right arm was free, but his left kept him in place. He pulled hard against it and then looked around the sterile room.
I'm in the hospital,
he thought. He reached up and felt his bandaged head. The previous night came rushing back to him.

The door opened, and Carter saw Zyir walk in. For the first time, he didn't know what to do or say. All the power, all the influence, all the money meant nothing. He was just a man with a broken soul. “What is this?”Carter asked, referencing the restraints.

“I saw something last night that I never thought I'd see,” Zyir said. “You just need some time to regroup. Get your head right.”

“Where am I?” Carter asked.

“This is the psychiatric ward of the hospital. I had you committed under suicide watch,” Zyir said.

Carter's jaw clenched, and anger danced in his eyes. “You just need a little time, my G. A little rest,” Zyir said. “I didn't call nobody. I'm the only one who knows you're here.”

For that fact, Carter was grateful. “I'm good, Zy. Shit got out of hand last night, but I can handle it. Come on. Get the fucking doctor and take this shit off. This feeling too much like handcuffs for me,” Carter reasoned.

“You can't leave here until I sign you out, Carter,” Zyir said. “And I'm not signing anything until I'm sure you've had time to clear your mind. Last night wasn't you. I understand the pressure. It don't feel right going back to Flint thinking you gon' do something reckless again.”

Carter looked at Zyir proudly. It was a full-circle moment. Zyir had absorbed Carter's philosophy like a sponge and now he was the one standing strong while Carter was buckling in grief. “I'm back, I'm fine. The alcohol and the silence. It…”

“No explanation needed, fam. I was there with you. I know what you lost … what we all lost,” Zyir said in a low tone as his eyes drifted off in thought momentarily. “I'm only signing you out if you agree to get help. Someone live-in. A therapist or a cleaning lady—hell, a stripper…”

Carter chuckled at that one. Zyir continued, “Anybody to keep an eye out on you.”

Carter nodded. “You have my word.”

“Let me go get one of the doctors to come and check you out … move you off this floor,” Zyir stated. He turned to the door.

“Yo, Zyir,” Carter called. Zyir turned. “Why were you in Colorado, anyway? You didn't come to my door to peel me off the floor. You need something?”

Zyir remembered what had brought him to Carter's door in the first place and he was filled with sorrow. “Nah. I'm good. Everything's smooth. Just wanted to see how you were holding up,” he said. “Glad I got there when I did.” Carter knew him well enough to know that he was lying, but respected him too much to call him out on it.

“Yeah, me too,” Carter replied. Carter watched Zyir walk out of the room and then lay back on the bed, closing his eyes.

The physical pain he was in was excruciating, but he was grateful for it. It served as a distraction from the emotional war that was waging within him. He didn't know how to feel. He was angry that Zyir had interfered, but filled with regret for taking the actions in the first place. Carter knew that if Zyir let him stay in the seclusion of the mountains, eventually the depression he felt would surmount to the point where he put himself out of his misery, and next time he wouldn't miss. He hated to admit it, but therapy was essential to him right now. He needed to hear someone tell him that it was okay to keep living. He knew he wouldn't divulge all the details, but just having another person around him daily would make it easier to cope.

Carter didn't sleep that night. He stayed up, mind racing, heart pounding, head banging as he gazed out of the hospital window. The amber-and-orange hues that appeared with the rising sun captivated him. He had never taken the time to truly appreciate the marvel of it, and he realized he would have missed it had Zyir not shown up at his door. His heart and soul had never been so conflicted. His grief was tormenting him. At that very moment he just wanted to hold his wife. He wanted to touch her, to smell her, to hear her voice.
Damn, I miss you, ma,
he thought. He couldn't help but wonder where she was. Was she hurting? How was she doing with it all? Did she need him?

A rap at the door interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to find Zyir entering with a woman. Her brown skin was flawless and accentuated only by the faintest shade of pink blush. Her long hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that fell down her back. She was thin, with a model's frame. Her beauty spoke for her before she ever opened her lips, and Carter appreciated it as a fine work of art. In all her splendor he couldn't help but notice her eyes. They were plain, just a dark shade of brown, but the smile that hid behind them took his breath away.

“Carter, this is Samantha Dean,” Zyir said, introducing him.

“Hello, Carter,” she said with a smile as she crossed the room. “I'm in psychiatric care. I wanted to meet you. Zyir says you have some things you need help with sorting out. I'd be more than happy to help you with—”