The Passing Storm

The wind howled outside the old hunting shack, battering the shutters with the falling snow under the moonlit sky. I sat inside the dim room, listening to the fire crackle and pop as I added the last log to the small inferno. I wondered if anyone would find me out here. Certainly, not in this storm. The cabin lay at the base of the mountain, surrounded by wooded forests. The nearest person was a quarter-mile downstream, which was blocked by a wall of white. I was somewhere secluded, somewhere I would never be found. The storm was certain of that.

As the fire began to die, I sat back in my chair and pulled out an old photo from my wallet. It was crumpled and tattered, but it encompassed all that I held dear. My wife's kind eyes and beautiful smile and my children's laughter were immortalized in this piece of paper. The picture was taken in this very room. We had just arrived for our first family camping trip, and my wife was chasing our kids around the cabin while I brought everything inside. Those were simpler times. Happier times.

We were supposed to meet the other night for dinner to celebrate our daughter's birthday. She always chose to go to that Italian restaurant, Louie's, every year since she was old enough to eat pasta. Baked ziti was her favorite.

I arrived at the restaurant early to get us on the waiting list, leaving just minutes before my family. I was seated at the table, tapping my water glass in anticipation of their arrival. First, it was five minutes. Then ten. Then twenty. Maybe they left a little later than I thought. Maybe they were stuck in traffic.

More time passed.

I called my wife with a queasy feeling in my stomach. No answer.

I called again. And again. And again.

Still, no answer. They should have been here by now.

Finally, I received a call back. I sighed with relief.

"Hello? Catherine, are you and the kids okay?" I asked, tears welling up in my eyes.

"Is this Mr. Jones, husband of Catherine Jones?" The voice on the other end of the phone asked.

"Y-yes," I replied. "Who is this?"

"Mr. Jones, there has been an accident..."

My phone fell from my fingers as I sat in shock for what felt like an eternity. I scrambled to put on my jacket and fumbled for my keys. I ran out the door, nearly falling on the iced sidewalk on the way to the car. I flew out of the parking lot and headed for the hospital. I don't know how fast I drove that night. Frankly, I don't even remember the drive.

I sprinted through the narrow opening in the sliding glass doors. "Jones. Catherine Jones," I panted to the receptionist. I was met with silence.

"Jones. Catherine Jones," I repeated. More silence.

"Mr. Jones?" Came the same voice as the phone, this time softer and broken.

"Yes?" I asked, whirling around to see a uniformed officer.

"Please, come with me." Our eyes met for a brief moment before he dropped his gaze.

I nodded and began to follow him, each step heavier than the last. We stopped outside a  door. I should have looked at the sign above or listened to what the officer had to say, but I didn't. I ignored him and barged into the room, only to be met with three body bags, one large and two small.

I crumbled to my knees, tears raining from my face. My stomach was in my throat. This couldn't be happening. It isn't them. It can't be, I told myself. Surely, there's some misunderstanding. Surely, this is someone else's nightmare.

"Mr. Jones, I'm ... I'm sorry," the officer said. "I know that this is difficult, but can you confirm that this is your family?" He asked, unzipping the bags to reveal the faces of my wife, son, and daughter. My stomach was beyond my throat now, as I got sick in the nearby trashcan. My vision went dark.

I don't remember anything else from that night. Or the day after. Or the day after that. But yesterday was the funeral. That day will be permanently ingrained in my memory, which is why I'm here in this shack on Christmas night.

The fire went out. It was time.

I reached to my side and touched the pistol at the table beside me, my hands trembling in the darkness. I clutched the picture of my family tight as I grabbed the gun and raised it to my head. I began to weep as memories of my family flooded my brain. I saw birthdays and major milestones. I saw the days that my children were born, remembering what it was like to hold them for the first time, but also the last. I saw my wife and I quietly dancing late at night, trying not to wake up the sleeping babies. I saw a family so strong that nothing could break them apart. I saw my family.

I inhaled deeply. Then, letting the emotions flow as I exhaled, I moved my finger towards the trigger.

But I couldn't do it.

This is not what they would have wanted. My family would not want this. This was not the way back to them.

My hand lowered, setting the pistol back on the table. I pulled my knees to my chest as tears ran down my face. Eventually, I drifted to sleep.

That night, I saw the future. A future that would never be. My children were grown with kids of their own, and my wife was still beside me. I could see them. Touch them. Hug them.

When I woke, there was silence. The wind was no longer howling, and the shutters no longer rattled. I peeked outside with my bloodshot eyes and saw the rising sun, glistening off the fallen snow. I took a deep breath. This storm had passed, but many more loomed on the horizon.