[diebitter]

A Perfect Little Life

Bad things happen to good people, my Grandma used to say.

I never really liked the saying, though I did see that it was sometimes true as I grew up and saw a little of life.

I didn't want to go the party, but the hostess was an acquaintance of my wife, a RICH acquaintance, and in my wife's business, it was always a good idea to keep in touch with rich acquaintances. So I dutifully showered and shaved, put on my happy rags, and played with the kids while my wife continued to get ready. My oldest, Tom, played on his PS2, while my younger son, Dex, read his book. 7 years old, and intently reading...not that he was a nerd or bookworm, not by a long chalk. He loved playing soccer and did karate too, and loved rough and tumbling, but right now his little face scowled as he read his little book intently. His face made me think of a clenched fist.

It was getting close to bedtime for our little daughter, and I was hoping the babysitter would turn up soon so I could get her to do it. Not that I minded - I usually bathed and readied the kids every night while my wife made dinner for us two, but...you know...I had my happy rags on.

Anyway, I did bathe her, and the babysitter turned up and started getting my boys upstairs, bathing for the youngest, showering for the older, and getting them in their pyjamas.

We kissed the kids goodnight and were on our way.

Boy, it was an impressive house, and the valet parking made an impression too.

We went in, were warmly welcomed, everyone friendly and smiling. I hated it, but I could do the act, so I just smiled back and made the small talk. It was all proceeding along its predictable course, and I did my best to ration checking the time on my watch to only once every 5 minutes, when it all went badly wrong.

Bad things happen to good people, my Grandma used to say. She was right, of course. They do, but if they're lucky, they live through it.

When I saw the gun come out, and heard the angry shouting, I thought of my children. I thought about how awful it would be to miss them growing up, and not being there to guide them safely to adulthood as best I could. But I was born in the 60s, and teenaged in the 80s, when Rambo and Arnie showed us how to stand up to this. All that's sensible in me knew it was an utterly stupid thing to do. Those damned formative years watching superhuman feats and bullet-dodging antics and their effect on my testosterone made me think I could do it, and I hesitated in following the man's order. What settled it after that was seeing him knock down an old guy without holding back at all, drawing blood from the old man's face. I have one immediate response to violence, I'm afraid to say, and that's violence back.

So as I went for the guy, convinced I was going to take him down, I remember the slow-motion shock at him turning towards me impossibly fast and firing, and feeling like I'd been punched in the ribs, and falling to the floor.

It went quiet for me then, though I could sense screams around me, and then my wife was holding me.

Bad things happen to good people all right.

But it was okay. I had to live, I just had to, and I knew I would. My kids needed me. Why the hell did I do such a stupid thing?

I am glad to tell you, I did. I got past it, I got better. I was lucky, so lucky with my children.

I remember it all. It seemed like the bullet cut the nonsense and gristle of my life away, leaving only clean bone and firm meat, and it became impossibly good after that. My oldest became a star athelete, grew to captain his swimming team, and grew up straight and strong and muscular, clean-living and fine. His mother and I were so, so proud when he graduated with a 1st class degree with honours, and went on to be a reknowned paleontologist, something me and he talked about for the first time just before the day I was shot, strangely enough.

My middle boy, Dex, he was always a clever boy, but always a handful, seemed to change after the shooting, and was much less trouble. He worked hard, got great school grades, and became a bit of a heartbreaker among the young ladies – phone calls from different ones at all hours. I pretended to be a little disapproving, especially around his mother, but secretly I was proud. He became a traveller and successful writer. But still, my fondest memory is me helping him paint some models of soldiers he'd got for his birthday, and after that him and I going out and flying his new kite. His birthday was a week before the shooting, ironically. It was lovely to be out on that hillside with him, listening to him giggle, and still be young enough to hug me and say 'I love you, daddy' as the kite streaked around the sky.

And my daughter, Lizzy...she grew into a fine, beautiful young woman who was much like her mother in looks, but like me in temperament...calm, fun-loving, grounded (except for our occasional tempers). It seemed like only a short time since she was little, and I was bathing her. But she became a doctor. Lord, I was proud of her, proud of them all.

And, in time, all three gave me 2 grandchildren each in an impossible symmetry for normal life, so I had 6 of them in the house at Christmases and birthdays, and each reminded me of my own children, long ago. It was bliss to have that noisy houseful. It was one of those times life brings you EXACTLY what you wish for.

It was all too perfect really - just too lucky to escape death by that bullet.

Dreams can be perfect, of course, in a way that real life usually isn't. These memories...aren't memories. They are some final electrons sparking in a dying brain, so final cruel reflection of a life I dreamt might come true.

My eyes finally work for a last time to see my crying wife.

I try to say I love you, but all that comes out is a warm, running sensation around my mouth, and I can see in my wife's eyes horror cutting through her pain. So I gurgle out blood instead of words of love to be remembered, and I can't feel anything anymore.

I've never been a religious man, but I remember hoping there was a god, so I could spit in his face for robbing me and my children. He could keep his heavenly eternity, I just wanted my 20 or 30 years of family, and I'd happily dance into the until-time-ends torments of hell for the trade, and know I'd got the better of the deal.

And then it went black.

Bad things happen to good people is a truth we can't escape, I guess.