They don’t have an open casket when the person inside the damn thing blew his brains out.
He loaded a shell into the rifle.
They don’t let the family or the friends see the remains when the head has a hole in it. A hole starting under the chin, through the brains and out the top of the skull. Not really a hole. A hile didn’t describe it properly. Hile made it sound slight, small, dignified, manageable almost. It wasn’t a hole as much as a space, an empty, vacant space. A space that once held the brains. Brains that once held jokes and memories, faces of friends, baseball stats, song titles, crossword puzzle answers. A brain that was quick and kind. A brain that knew how to drive a truck better than any other brain on the planet. A brain that …
“Just didn’t fucking think,” he said to himself. He put the rifle to his shoulder, sighted down the barrel, focused on the target, an industrial sized can of baked beans, some two thousand yards across the field. Breath in, breath out, hold, count three, squeeze trigger. The can didn’t move. A puff of dirt behind it betrayed his miss. He rarely missed. Two thousand yards was a hell of a shot but, he was a trained sniper. He was good. He was one of the best. He had hit targets at three thousand yards when he was in the shit. Two thousand, with no pressure. Two thousand, with no incoming fire. Two thousand in a field behind his house, on his land, on a Sunday, that should be easy. Nothing to distract him. Nothing to disturb him. Except …
“Slow down, Mary, I can’t understand a thing you’re saying,” he said to her, she was babbling, she was hysterical, “Mary, put Josiah on the phone, is he there, can he talk?” He did. Josiah told him that his father was dead. His best friend, was dead. The details came slowly. Josiah was just a kid, still in high school, smart as a whip but, still. Killed himself. In the work shed. In the back yard. Gunshot. Head. A lot of blood … A lot …
He put another shell in the rifle. He thought of the scene, the police cars, the black bag they carried out of the shed. The blood, Jesus fucking Christ the blood. He had killed men, seen the pink mist plenty of times but, at a distance. The shed was small. He shouldered the rifle. The shed was tiny and it looked like half of it had been painted on the inside. Painted with Jerry’s blood. He sighted down the barrel. Breath in, breath out, hold, count three, squeeze trigger. The can shook. He lowered the rifle and looked down the field. Hit. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and started to walk toward the target.