Welcome to Gaia! ::

Well, ladies and gents, hope you're having a lovely evening.
Seems to be all the rage to bare your heart & soul by offering up a short story to the raving masses, so here's my take on it, I suppose.

Quick notes:
This was originally posted on deviantArt in July 2009, and is therefore considered old but I hold a peculiar fondness for it. Go ahead and critique like a man (aka harshly).
It's based off a premise of a now defunct roleplay site; it was a character study that was always intended to be developed further and that's why a good deal of information was left out.

Should I bother continuing and add the plot + character detail?
Thanks in advance; story will be presented in gigant-o-vision text for your reading pleasure. Good luck with the text wall.

Robert was not with his wife when his world disappeared. He was not watching his child, sleeping peacefully in a small bed in a room littered with toys, only five years old. He wasn’t in the kitchen, grabbing himself a late night snack from the interior of the refrigerator, cool air blowing on his face, or tiredly using the bathroom and checking the bruise on the back of his arm in the mirror before stumbling back to bed, blinking the light spots out of his eyes and irritably itching the back of his neck. He didn't even get a chance to brush his wife's hair out of her eyes as she slept, or plant a gentle kiss on her bare shoulder.

No, Robert was sitting on the edge of a hard bed that wasn’t his, a tie messily undone around his neck and a long red smear of lipstick running across the collar of his white shirt. The lipstick was almost the same color as the splatters of blood that marred the usually clean surface of his clothes and erratically covered his forearms and face. When his left hand reached up to touch his cheek, it came away sticky with spots of congealed blood that were quickly drying. His blue eyes slid across the things in front of him after leaving his hand – pale, nondescript wallpaper faintly striped in light brown, the pattern of tangled but carefully ordered flowers and assortments of plants in the carpeting. A dusty television stood securely in front of the bed, a balding man peering out from it and pronouncing the weather in a cheerily intrusive voice. He’d turned the television up as loud as he could earlier, but now the same hand that had touched his face fumbled for the remote that lay a little ways behind him, pressing buttons without Robert once glancing behind him until the thing was silenced on a commercial for some new revolutionary cleaning product.

Now he tossed the remote behind him again, and it landed on a pair of bare legs splayed out awkwardly, one black high heel still clinging hopelessly to a foot, the other heel long hidden behind the ugly blue armchair positioned strategically over in the corner furthest from the door. The curtains were drawn tight, but there was a strip of light on the floor from the lights outside that the curtains could not block out. Without the white light of the television, the room was thrown into darkness, and when Robert looked down between his legs where one hand still dangled, he couldn’t see the metal of the gun that was cool and damp in his grip, the hardness of the butt of the weapon somehow comforting.

Slowly, painfully he stood up to walk around the bed to the nearest nightstand, feeling aimlessly for the lamp switch. The glowing red numbers of the digital clock perched on the nightstand, the only light aside from the window, proclaimed it to be 2:34 in the morning, give or take a few minutes due to the unreliability of motel clocks. Finally his searching fingers found the switch and he flicked it.

The thing on the bed assaulted his mind again, and he unconsciously reared back from it, stepping away while his eyes slid over it. There was sort of a sick, blank numbness in his head that had already spread throughout his body, and the gun slipped from his fingers when the numbness touched them to bounce once on the carpet and then come to a rest. He leaned over to retrieve it automatically, grasping it between his fingers again.

There was, of course, a body on the bed. That was easy for him to accept. Its eyes were open, but they weren’t looking at him. They were staring glassily at the ceiling, its mouth still slightly opened but not in the painful way it’d opened it when it had been trying to scream as loud as it could earlier. The pillow that had muted the scream was now on the other side of the bed on the floor, forgotten as soon as its use was served, blood staining it as well.

It was a woman. That was also something Robert could accept, after a little bit of labored thought. The curve of her breasts was over exaggerated due to the lacy bra that bound them up, black with a pink ribbon accent that came together in a bow at the clasp in the front. There was a light spattering of pale freckles on her shoulders that now shared skin space with a few drops of dark blood, and her left bra strap had fallen down her shoulder.

Abruptly Robert went back to the end of the bed, seating himself on the edge again. He didn’t want to look at her; didn’t want to see her long blonde hair tangle out over the remaining pillows or the way her green eyes wouldn’t look at him. Earlier, he had pushed her skirt up around her hips, but it had come down again, throwing the space between her legs into shadow in the dim lamp light. Robert took a deep breath, the sudden oxygen intake making him lightheaded and dizzy for a moment, before shoving his legs together and letting the gun rest on his thighs, rubbing at his temples with his hands. When his hands passed over his jaw line, it was rough with the beginning of stubble.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt again, straightening it, but the top two buttons had come undone and with no support, the collar just went back to lay open limply on his shoulder. He dared himself to look at the woman on the bed again, and with effort he did so, eyes traveling up her body to the bruises forming on her wrists where her hands had been tightly held together above her head. With a wince, his eyes hit the hole in the middle of her forehead that had made blood blossom out onto the pillow that supported her. A line of blood had dripped down her forehead, but there was no other damage to the front of her face. At the back, however, it’d gotten a little messy. Not bothering to get the remote, he leaned forward and turned on the television again, an infomercial blaring out information into the room. When he stood up again, the gun was held tightly in his left hand.

Another deep breath, and this time he wasn’t dizzy. He considered the gun. What would be best? He wanted no chance that he would survive this next and final act. He put the barrel of the gun in his mouth, but the metallic tang turned out to be too much for him to bear. He’d heard that shooting through the side of your head could miss a lot. Finally, Robert settled for bringing his arm up so that the gun was leveled at his forehead, exactly in the same place as the woman. His brown hair was short enough that he hadn’t had to move any of it out of the way of the gun, like he had with her, but soundless water slid down gaunt cheeks. His finger twitched and he pulled off the safety with a click, trigger finger beginning to tense as he breathed harshly, the sound of the television grating against his ears.

Strangely enough, all around him went black before he pulled the trigger. He blinked, confused. Had he already done it? There was no pain except the throbbing in his temples that indicated a migraine. Robert thought maybe he had, and this was what he got for it. There was no light at all, which was frightening. This absence of light was something he had never even considered; the thought made his throat close up in a dry, all-consuming fear that raced through him like ice water. If this was being dead, maybe –

His thought was stopped in the middle of its panicked run through. It was like his entire mind went blank as the world rematerialized, bright cobbled streets and people rushing around him. Someone shoved his shoulder, and the gun clattered out of his hand as he stared at it. Unknowingly, another passerby accidentally kicked it away, and it skidded down the road. A man paused beside him, staring at the blood on his shirt curiously. In fact, he was just staring at him weird. “Sir, are you alright?”

“What…?” Robert asked, looking downwards. He couldn’t figure out for the life of him why there was blood all over the shirt.

“Sir, let me help you. You’re hurt. What’s your name?”

Robert blinked once, twice, patting his shirt. “I don’t know.”

Well, ok then!

Robert was not with his wife when his world disappeared. He was not watching his child, sleeping peacefully-who was sleeping peacefully? It's a little confusing at first- in a small bed in a room littered with toys, only five years old. He wasn’t in the kitchen, grabbing himself a late night snack from the interior of the refrigerator, cool air blowing-consider a different verb here; my refrigerator does not blow air at me, it just kind of drifts out- on his face, or tiredly using the bathroom and checking the bruise on the back of his arm in the mirror before stumbling back to bed, blinking the light spots out of his eyes and irritably itching the back of his neck.-I think that might have been a run-on sentence; I lost track of what was happening about halfway through it, due to the long-winded descriptions. You don't have to cut the word count, but consider chopping that one into separate sentences.- He didn't even get a chance to brush his wife's hair out of her eyes as she slept, or plant a gentle kiss on her bare shoulder.

No, Robert was sitting on the edge of a hard bed that wasn’t his, a tie messily-can a tie be neatly undone?- undone around his neck and a long red smear of lipstick running across the collar of his white shirt. The lipstick was almost the same color as the splatters of blood that marred the usually clean surface of his clothes and erratically covered his forearms and face. When his left hand reached up to touch his cheek, it came away sticky with spots of congealed blood that were quickly drying. His blue eyes slid across the things in front of him after leaving his hand-otherwise I imagine him with Mr. Potato eyes, kind of fiddling with them in his hand- – pale, nondescript wallpaper faintly striped in light brown, the pattern of tangled but carefully ordered-aren't those two descriptions mutually exclusive? they may not be; I'm not an expert on flower arranging- flowers and assortments of plants on (unless they are literally growing out of the carpet) the carpeting. A dusty television stood securely -I don't know what an inanimate object looks like when it's being secure- in front of the bed, a balding man peering-that word makes me think he's kind of leaning toward the camera, trying to see something on it; try "facing"?- out from it and pronouncing the weather in a cheerily intrusive voice.- heart that description!-He’d turned the television up as loud as he could earlier, but now the same hand that had touched his face fumbled for the remote that lay a little ways behind him, pressing buttons without Robert once glancing behind him until the thing was silenced on a commercial for some new revolutionary cleaning product. This sentence felt really wordy, like you could have used fewer words to describe the same actions.

Now he tossed the remote behind him again, and it landed on a pair of bare legs splayed out awkwardly, one black high heel still clinging hopelessly to a foot,-was it slowly sliding off?- the other heel long hidden behind the ugly blue armchair positioned strategically over in the corner furthest from the door. I can't get a good image from that. All I can see are mannequin legs tossed carelessly on the floor-The curtains were drawn tight, but there was a strip of light on the floor from the lights outside that the curtains could not block out. Without the white light of the television, the room was thrown into darkness, and when Robert looked down between his legs where one hand still dangled, he couldn’t see the metal of the gun that was cool and damp in his grip, the hardness of the butt -hardness of the butt: I giggled immaturely when I read that- of the weapon somehow comforting.

I think it's a fantastic story with very minor mistakes. While I am not in a critiquing mood (sorry about that) I feel a lot of what was mentioned above was mostly "personal preference" rather than mistakes. Watch those run-ons, if the sentence lasts three lines without only two commas it's too long. You can continue a thought even when ending a sentence.

I love your style, but you should check not to get too into your descriptions or you risk sounding pompous. While it's fine for a dramatic opening, I would caution against continuing in the same manner (But this is really just a peeve of mine *since I do it myself...*; really, it could turn out fantastically, just do what you feel is most honest to your tone).