Bob Huffman’s oblong face had begun to bear wrinkles; wrinkles that clearly told the man’s story not in words but in experience, a language that needed no literacy to understand it, just life. Dimly lit, as the room was, the corners of the ‘not so high’ ceiling of the cottage whispered stories of the past to the spiders that hung in the cobwebs; some eager to listen more, some dead, already. The squeak of his rocker, as it moved back and forth did not seem to worry Huffman; he didn’t mind the squeak as most people would, for that chair reminded him of a lot of things; mostly good ones. Beads of perspiration had begun to form on his forehead, as the feeling of guilt had begun to tickle his tender heart; he feared it, the guilt.
Across the room, stood the drawer, inside the drawer was the gun; if he didn’t bury it that night, the guilt of his heinous crime would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Shivering, was he? Or was the blasted ground trembling!? He didn’t know, but he felt so as he got up from the comfort of his rocker, to get the gun. He took a step and then another one, towards the drawer; as he walked he felt a thousand eyes were goggling at him, lurking in the darkest corners of the room.
He pulled the drawer, half-open; slowly slipped his hand inside, found nothing. He pulled it out, there was no gun; the emptiness of the wooden drawer brought back to him the memories of the day he shot his friend.
‘Over a quarrel? God! Why I drank that much…what’ve I done,’ he began to cry, loudly, searching madly for the gun; cracking every dish and breaking every glass that came in his way.
Mrs. Huffman, who was asleep for so long, came rushing down the stairs and held her maddening husband, tight.
“Oh not again honey,” she said, “Ya' buried the gun ten years ago, but ya’ keep gettin’ these impulses every second night, don’t ya’? get over it darlin’, it’s been ten years, no one’s after you…You’ll get us both in trouble, one day!”