Head in his hands, John stared at his desk below him. He remembered buying it with her, at an garage sale years ago. He could practically hear Julie beside him, trying to convince him that hiding under the ugly stain and worn wood was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. He couldn’t really believe her then, but he could never resist her optimism, and plunked down the cash for the desk. He could still see her face, covered in sawdust and sunbeams, sanding away at the old stain for the next three weeks. His Julie. Now she was sitting in the most beautiful wooden box he could afford, thanks to him. It was all his fault.

He willed his eyes to look through the wood, into the drawer below him. There was a gun down there, a Glock .45. Julie hated it, but John had grown up around guns, and just felt better knowing it was there. Well, she had hated it… Maybe she still would hate it if she knew what John was thinking about doing with it. It would certainly be a nicer death than she’d had. His body shook as he thought about her last moments, stuck in a hospital bed with tubes and cords running everywhere. The glock would be a better death than he deserved.

Teardrops splattered on the cherry stained wood. John tried to will them away, but with little more success than he’d had trying to see through the wood. Julie would have known what to say, she always knew how to fix any situation. Except herself. Laying in the hospital after the crash, he’d tried to convince her that it was all going to turn out alright, that the doctors knew what they were doing. But she knew. His hand shook as he lowered it from his head, towards his lap. His hands curled around in familiarity, and palmed through the familiar motions as he drew the object up to the desktop.

“Hello, suicide helpline” rang out in a familiar voice from his cellphone.

“Hi.” John’s voice wavered. “I killed my wife.”