First Death (Original Vignette)

First Death

My grandfather and I would walk down to the coffee shop every Friday together. I was maybe five or six years old, and that day was no different. It was cold and grey, like most days were, and I followed behind him asking him questions about life.

As good as a kid can, anyways. Lots of “why” questions, which I’m sure he thought was annoying. A couple years earlier, my grandfather on my paternal side died suddenly. I was asking him why people die, where they go.

“When I die, where will I go?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “The ground.”

He was not a very religious man, and I suspect he thought that telling a kid a lie was worse than telling him a hard truth. I can appreciate the rationale of that decision as an adult.

“So they don’t live forever?”

“No. Nobody lives forever.” He held open the door, and led me into the coffee shop. It was busier than usual, and the man behind the counter looked frazzled. He was running to and from places quickly, and slinging out coffee like a machine.

“Why is he doing that?” I asked.

“Cause he needs money.” We stepped up towards the counter.

“Why does he need money?”

“So he can purchase things.” He pulled out his wallet, a thick black leather wallet that was probably all the fashion in his youth. I always preferred slim wallets.

“Oh, okay.” I said, and looked idly around the shop. A young couple was drinking coffee together, a group of old men laughed in the corner, but my eyes kept being drawn to the man behind the counter. Every time the door chimed, his face curled into an expression of annoyance.

“He’s not having a good day,” my grandfather scratched his beard, “Seems like he’s the only one here.”

“He doesn’t have anyone?” I asked.

“Doesn’t look like he’s working with anyone, no.” He responded, and we stepped up to the counter.

The worker had large black circles around his eyes, and he had skipped shaving his beard for several days. He had a funny smell to him when we approached him, like he left his clothes too long in the washing machine.

“Alright kid, what do you want?” My grandfather asked. The worker behind the counter kept looking around, as if he knew what was coming.

“A chocolate milk and a plain doughnut.” I said to the man.

“I’ll get a double double, and a plain bagel.” My grandfather said.

It all came together quite quickly. The worker was frazzled, but he was damn good at his job. That stuck with me for some reason. I think he can take pride that he worked so hard. As a kid, I wished that when I grew up, I’d be like him.

The door chimed as a new person walked in. A man dressed nicely, and he was holding something. My grandfather’s eyes went wide as he saw, and he tried to cover my eyes as I turned to see what he was staring at.

The cold metal of a gun was being pressed into the nicely dressed man’s mouth. His own hands wrapped around the gun, and he swallowed hard. His finger pressed the trigger, and a solitary BANG rang out in the store. Some people began to scream, and my grandfather pulled my head towards him.

“Don’t look at that.” He said, as people were screaming all around us.

It didn’t matter though. I could hear it. I can still hear it to this day. We never found out why he did it, but I assume he had a good reason.

It was the first death I saw, and the first death of many that would follow me.