Flazie wheezed into the cold air releasing a spray of blood that steamed as it stained the bedding. It was mid-February and a clingy fog rolled off the river and into the neat shotgun houses on Algiers Point. Flazie coughed and smiled.
Perfect timing, he thought. Dying on her birthday was very poetic.
The house had grown too still and lifeless over the years. He was tired of coming home after weeks on the road to the cold stares of his neighbors and the bloody reminder of her death. No matter how much he scrubbed and painted, the front stairs of the house held tight to the stain.
For weeks after her death, he thought she might reappear. Drawn back by the blood, by her love for him, by the spells. Neither worked and he lived the next two decades half missing her and half fearing the cops would break down his door and drag him to jail. But he was the best there was at what he did and despite having shot her point-blank in broad daylight and in full sight of half the block, the official record stated she committed suicide.
Flazie hummed her favorite tune. The one she used to play over and over on the bright blue record player. It was gone now, along with her vast record collection. Had he sold it? Did the hoodlums take it? Flazie couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, he was leaving this world. Finally! He took his hand off the gun shot wound and let the blood flow freely. One to the stomach. This would take a while, but it was worth it to be with her again.