Chickened Out

I was chickening out.  I didn’t really want to die but didn’t know how to proceed from here.  I wanted to go home but didn’t know if Bob would take me back or not.  I didn’t want to call him and get an angry response because I knew that would send me around the bend and I really would kill myself if I did. So I decided I needed to get rid of the gun before I called him.   Trouble was, I didn’t know the area and couldn’t think of a way to just throw it away and didn’t think that would be safe.  I desperately wanted to talk to someone but didn’t know who.

I thought about that.  A friend of mine’s husband was working on the Coast in hurricane relief—he had been in my Sunday School class for several years.  I thought about trying to call him.  I realized that I would have to call his cell—he was living in a travel trailer and volunteering for various cleanup agencies.  I didn’t know his cell number and didn’t feel comfortable calling my friend to get it.

I thought some more.  I had another acquaintance in the area—he worked for Bob’s company in New Orleans and on the coast.  I went online and looked up his name on in New Orleans and found out he actually lived in Madisonville, just down the road.  I looked at my watch—it was around 4:30 p.m.  Maybe he would be home for dinner by now.  So I called the number on my cell phone.

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