The clouds rot and the trees bend to the will of the wind. The rain doesn’t tap against the house, it barrages. Lightning scours the sky scouting for an unsuspecting target. The pain of transformers, cars, and people are subtle behind the vanguard of rain and wind, but when lightning strikes, everything becomes clear to Ciaran.

“No, not again,” he says. His home quivers as wind knocks.

“It’s happening again, dear?” He married his wife, Deborah, for her intellect. Over time, love molded his perception of beauty to match her cat eye glasses chained behind her neck and oversized sweaters she knit herself.

“What should I do?” She asks.

“I’m not sure, yet. It’s not so bad right now. Get the gun just in case.” Deborah smacks her book onto her lap and clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

While Deborah enters the code to the safe, lightning strikes. Ciaran remembers. He was fighting in Taiwan. It was a night similar to the one outside his house right now. The wind and rain combined to flush out any other sounds and obscure his visibility. Shadows in the shape of men tickled the nerves responsible for pulling the trigger. One shadow, however, did not disappear when he spun towards it. It lay on the ground, begging for help. This shadow was a young woman. Then, the constant rumble of thunder lowered the register of an eleven year old’s cry for mercy into a chilling roar. Ciaran shot him, too.

“Are you alright?” Deborah returns with the gun.

“They’re just flashbacks to other times.”

“Is it us?” She asks. The two are aging. Getting divorced is more inconvenient than loving each other, so they pretend.

“What?” Ciaran shouts.

“Ciaran? What’s happening?”

There was never a conversation where it was explicitly said. But the years withered their jubilee and love indiscriminantly. Now, Ciaran’s only excitement comes from stories. Lightning strikes. Ciaran remembers.

After his service, Ciaran secured a job working for a recognizable musician. Ciaran respected him as much as the ant underneath his shoe, but he paid enough for Ciaran to feign respect. When he got the job, a non disclosure agreement was thrusted into his chest. It was thick enough that the lawyers didn’t wait around for him to sign it. They would reconvene the next day after Ciaran skimmed the pages for every empty line to sign.

During concerts, Ciaran stood in front of a hip-high metal fence in a black t-shirt tucked into black pants. His least favorite part of the concert was when the musician told everyone, “get ready to jump!” People don’t know how to land. They bump into him and he shoves them off. Then, a burst of fire jets out from the bottom of the stage, synging the hairs on the back of Ciaran’s neck.

“Thank you, LA!” The speakers shout in unison. “Hey Ciaran!” He turns to address the musician. He’s pointing at a girl next to him. Straight blonde hair with pink highlights fall to her waist. Black webbing decorate her legs. She’s the only one not shouting, but dawning a playful smile. Ciaran shifts the gate open for her and escorts her backstage. After three hours, Ciaran knocks on the door. A few giggles preceed a hush. Glass rolls against the floor. After a minute, the door opens. The girl is hanging off the musicians neck. Her hair is not straight anymore. They fumble together to the limo.

When they arrive at the musicians hotel room, he tells Ciaran to take the rest of the night off. He would be a bad security guard if he listened. But because he was such a good listener, he decided maybe he should take a lap. He went outside for a smoke. He cupped his hands to block the wind and the fire took to the cigarette. That inhale full of smoke felt like the first breath he was able to take all night.

At the corner of the block, a crowd gathered. The flashes of cameras sparked the nighttime. Ciaran widdled his cigarette down a few drags then walked over to see what all the commotion was about. He weaved through the crowd and as he got to the front, he cursed. Blonde hair with pink highlights was the only recognizable feature of the body.

“Ciaran?” Deborah is checking in.

“It’s still… Still only flashbacks. I wouldn’t stay here, just in case. Go upstairs.” Deborah left. About ten years into their marriage, Ciaran stopped trying. It wasn’t a conscience effort, but a lack of willpower. Deborah never asked him to try harder, but she did ask specifics of him. Like take out the garbage, defrost the chicken when you get home, fold the laundry. So when Deborah became despondent, Ciaran was never able to figure out why. Instead of carrying the weight of the relationship on her back, Deborah unloaded it. She didn’t love Ciaran, or resentment him, as both required effort.

“Stop! That’s not true! We love each other! Stop painting me as some sad, old man. I’m happy! It’s when you open your laptop that my life becomes a living hell!” Ciaran is speaking non-sense. Probably because of his trauma in Taiwan.

“No! You made me do it! I never would’ve shot without confirming my target. You just needed a good story.” Ciaran wasn’t supposed to say that. It was in the NDA he neglected to read. He will probably get sued for that later.

“I would’ve read it if you didn’t write me skimming it!”

Let’s have lightning strike so Ciaran can think long and hard about how he wants to proceed.

The carpet in the room is infused with the aroma of old books. The concentration of people weighs heavily on one side of the table. They wear black suits and glasses and all stare at Ciaran. He is accompanied by one suited man. They debate and compete to express dominant body language. Ciaran goes home that night slouching under the weight of defeatism. After three weeks, he’ll receive a notice that he is in breach of his NDA contract. To afford the damages, he will need to put a lien on his house.

“What, I don’t remember this. Is this a flash forward? Am I destined to experience this when you turn your laptop off?”

Ciaran is beginning to understand how little control he has. His future can be just as easily determined as his past and present.

“Honey! Remember what we talked about,” Ciaran screams into the house. When lightning strikes, Deborah will see her reflection in windows. She will wonder if she can really do what he asks. She doesn’t believe the reason, but recognizes the despair in Ciaran when he goes through these episodes. She will wonder if that’s reason enough to end her husband’s story. It will freighten her that she can even imagine doing it.

“Am I the problem?” She’ll ask herself.

“What? No!” Ciaran hoists himself up from the chair. “Stop telling the story!”

She’ll justify an alternative. Ending her own life would be more ethically sound.

Ciaran darts up the stairs screaming for Deborah. “Deborah! Deborah! We have to end it now! Shoot me!”

She will think about why she cares if a man she doesn’t love anymore continues to suffer. It will be less burdensome for her to turn the gun on herself.

Ciaran bursts into the room. Deborah whips around. Tears fester in her eyes. She will cock the gun and raise it in the air.

“Please, stop,” Ciaran begs. “It does’t need to end like this. Shoot me, instead.” But the only thing Ciaran can control at this point is his words.

Ciaran perks up. “I think the writer is struggling with his sexuality. He started watching gay porn. And it’s not like he’s warming up with it. It’s always after a few videos.” Thunder and wind shake the house. The toilet water swashes out of the bowl and their drawers tremor open.

“He goes on Hinge every night but hasn’t received a single like or message in two months. He cries about it once in awhile. Usually when he has no plans on the weekends.” The glassware in the kitchen downstairs splatter across the tile. Thunder shakes their bones as fervently as their wooden shamble of a home.

“Ciaran? What are you saying?” Deborah’s tears shift from internal conflict to distress. The gun is now raised in the air.

“I’m trying to get him to end the story!”

Ciaran should tread carefully. Whatever ammunition he has can only be fired once.

“He only writes about love interests under extravagant plots to bury his inability to confront how damaged his own perception of love has become after his last girlfriend cheated on him!”

The final shot was fired.