gloria filiorum patres; ichabod

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TRIGGER WARNING: this post is heavily laced with implications of suicidal thoughts and/or actions. If this is a subject matter that might make you uncomfortable or uneasy, please do not continue reading.

( i c h a b o d )

The shop is quiet, but not silent.

White noise fills the space between the four walls and after the door shuts behind me and nicks my heel I can hear nothing but static. Conversations muddle between neighbors, acquaintances, and old friends one and the same, but still, I am alone. The change of pace is nothing new— I have stumbled in solitude for years on end with nothing but a name and heavy reputation resting on worn shoulders. Ichabod Callaghan was a name known well enough to spark recognition but never quite important enough to remember the reason why.

It was the ignition of a flame without gasoline to fuel it.

I trailed the back walls of the shop for a few moments, running my hands over the shelves that sat at waist level. A shit shop, that’s what my father would have called it for its inventory full of the useless. Watches that no longer worked, chipped plates, pens that were on the verge of running out of ink— no purpose left in this world but to fade out from existence.

It felt fitting for a split second to be at peace here—the white noise went quiet for a brief moment when my own worth was lifted from my back and placed in my own line of sight.

That placid pause amidst the chaos was broken by a hand upon my shoulder, and if it were not for the heavy, hazing feeling of serenity that had overtaken my body, I would have been startled, apt to strike out in fear of fading quicker than was intended. But instead, I turned slowly, met by the blank face of the shopkeeper whose name was plastered upon his pocket but did not catch my eye. Instead, I found myself meeting his gaze with interest, with drugged curiosity and the wonder of a child— “Is there anything I can help you with, my dear?”

Ichabod, no glory— he had not addressed me by name.

And for some strange reason this was all the confirmation I needed. Wringing my hands in the fabric of my shirt I kept his gaze as I stumbled through a statement of inquiry, “Do you have any paper— any stationary— something ornate, you know?

He smiled, the same type of smile that accompanied the white noise that had started once again, and he placed his finger against his nose as if in deep thought, before smiling in remembrance and motioning for me to follow him towards the counter. My feet stuck for a moment or so, unwilling to leave a feeling of forgiveness that had so long been searched for. Eventually, though, I was resting with elbows against a glass counter as he pulled out a box of notes, blank except for a simple design etched across the top border. He slid it across the glass and I picked it up gently, unaccustomed to having such a light touch in my own possession. After turning it over once or twice I nodded in affirmation, and he needed no other assurance as he fumbled for the price before pausing, “Do you need a pen as well?”

I contemplated for a moment, I knew there were pens scattered in every corner of the house, but fuck it, a last purchase should always be centered on indulgence, “Give me the best you’ve got.”

A fountain pen and an overflowing heart, I walked out from the white noise to be met with back alley burdens.

I walked with the stationary in one hand and the pen tucked behind my ear, my knuckles white by the time I had pushed my way through the front door and bolted the lock.

My dear, Ichabod, no glory.

I’d only be known as one of these when I was gone.

I set the pen and paper down on the kitchen table and abandoned the thought briefly, making my way up the set of wooden stairs to an empty bedroom with a single night side table beside the unmade bed, and with trembling hands I opened the drawer to remove a black handgun—no glory.

I turned it over in my palms in the same manner with which I had inspected the paper, and when finding it satisfactory I reached back into the drawer for a small, silver box. Removing it and picking up the gun once again I shut the drawer with my hip and retraced my steps back down the stairs, standing shakily at the landing before mechanically taking the last seven steps it took to sit myself at the kitchen table. Metal laid upon wood I turned my attention back to the stationary and pen before bringing a piece of the former to rest in front of me.

With hand still trembling I took up the pen and let its tip hover over the paper before beginning to slowly scrawl: “This is the last will and testament of Ichabod Callaghan—.”

No glory— it has all departed.

I paused, noticed the intensity of the trembling for the first time since I had sat down and pondered how difficult it would be to carry out the intended act with a hand that couldn’t handle the current pressures being placed upon it.

Continuing with a shaky breath, I watched ink pool at the place where the tip made contact once again, “I leave the small amount of my physical possessions to whomever finds my body. Anything borrowed or bought from any person which can still be identified shall be returned.”

Borrowed, bought, stolen— too bad my burden could not be pawned in place of the glory I had so longed for.

“As for my body, I would like for it to be burned, and for any bones to be scattered and buried wherever is convenient. Do not mark my place of rest, neither make reference to my passing.”

The glory has departed— the recognition should follow in its place.

Signed,
Ichabod Callaghan

I folded the piece of paper and laid the pen neatly across it to confirm the crease before sliding it across the table until all that remained within my reach were the two objects of metal. I picked up the box first, removing a single silver bullet from its innards and quickly loaded the gun before my actions could be withdrawn.

The safety off— my hand had stopped trembling.

When there is no glory to be found, what was left to be done but fulfill the opposing force that existed. If I was not to live in the light of a glory that I had so lusted after, there was nothing to be found but the death that lingered in the damp darkness of despair.

The glory has departed, and so must I.

I place the barrel against my temple and take a deep breath, listening to the old rhythm of a heart that has long outlived its years.

I wait, surrounded by the silence of white noise while listening for the click of a trigger and the removal of existence, but it does not come.

In this position for the half hour that passes I hear his voice only once, “Ichabod, my dear, there is no glory in this.”

Ichabod, no glory, my dear— reminders of who I am, was, and will become press cold metal to my skin and threaten to remove them all in the time it takes to remind myself that the glory has departed.

I twitch, my finger still locked against the trigger like anything now will make a difference. Another minute in passing and I let my fear well in my throat.

I sob, never removing the barrel from my temple as his voice fades to silence and is once again replaced by the static of white noise.

The glory has long since departed, leaving me to sit in the dark with a will at my right and sensibility in hindsight.

If the glory has long since departed, I cannot fathom why I cannot bring the same fate upon this body of mine.

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