Jerzy Poem by jerry hughes

Jerzy awoke from a fitful sleep,
his body aching from head to toe.
He focused his gummed up eyes
on the bedside clock - it was 9am.

He felt more tired than when he
went to bed some ten hours earlier.
Pulling the curtains aside filled the
room with pale winter sunlight.
Sensing it was crisply cold outside
a shiver ran through him.

It had to be today, he decided.
He'd put it off for too long.
His check-list of fors and againsts
comfirmed it, and he felt relieved.

Pulling his track suit over his T-shirt
and pyjama bottoms, Jerzy slid his feet
into his slippers, stood up and walked
stiffly up the stairs into his study.

The room was cold, but he didn't turn
the heater on. Sitting at his desk he
unlocked the big bottom drawer. At the
back, carefully wrapped in chamois, was
the souvenir he brough back from the war.

As Jerzy unwrapped the pistol, he realised
it hadn't been fired in 50 years. He checked
the ammunition clip and it was still filled with
bullets. His mind flashed back to the the day
he retrieved it from a dying German officer.
He'd be about my age now, Jerzy reckoned.

'Now... ' Jerzy thought aloud. Placing the
pistol to his temple he curled a finger around
the trigger and squeezed. The very last sound
he heard was the click of the hammer.