Terrence had suggested buckshot.

I chose a slug, instead.

It was the exact same kind my daddy had used to blow holes in paper targets in the backyard when I was a kid. I remember watching in absolute rapture as he pumped round after round into the center of that perfect red circle, giggling maniacally whenever a piece would spin through the air.

What lay before me, however, was no paper target.

My ears rang with the intensity of fifteen Liberty Bells, my entire body quaking with the rush of pure adrenaline. I knelt beside my prey and scooped its sputtering head into my hands. What remained of its once-friendly face attempted to smile. I shuddered.

Terrence placed a calm, cool hand on my shoulder.

"Finish the job," he said.

"I can't," I explained.

"You'll never let it go unless you put it in the ground," he implored. "Understand?"

"No," I said, watching as the twitching, flinching monstrosity in my lap stared blankly at the ceiling.

"Do you understand?" he said, taking a knee next to me. "Do you understand what you have to do?"

Unthinkable.

I stroked the monster's matted hair, whispered reassurance in its destroyed ears. This used to be mine, a very significant piece of my life. Now it was deformed, inhuman.

Dying.

I understood exactly what Terrence had meant. It was an easy solution to a complicated problem. As if on cue, my logical companion smiled, a calculated gesture to ease the pain.

I remember my world being cold and damp and quiet in the aftermath of this bizarre transformation, this unexpected reconfiguration of familiarity and routine. A vague photograph forever vibrant. Now it was a broken puzzle, a shambles, its pieces scattered like discarded toys in an empty house.

"This gave me purpose, direction," I whispered to the walls. "Now I'm adrift."

"It will only feed on you," Terrence explained. "Please. Let it go."

The damaged beast in my hands spoke something unintelligible, yet, strangely, I understood every last syllable with razor-sharp clarity. The answer was simple. The answer was clear.

But how do we truly let go of people and places and things that are no longer with us? How do you put the past in its place and close the door behind you? How do you cross the chasm between now and then without tumbling forever into the abyss below?

Try as I might to persuade myself otherwise, this wretched beast was not my friend. This was something else altogether; a bastard made of deceit, conceived by promises and lies.

"Let it go," Terrence said again. "Before it's too late."

Of course. Let's finish this.

I carefully placed what remained of the creature's head onto the soggy cellar floor and slowly rose to my feet, feeling the weight of that still-smoking weapon in my uneasy hands.

Decisions are hard to make, regardless of their intensity. Be it big or small, they will haunt you forever, a ghostly visage forever questioning the path you've chosen.

I pumped the shotgun once, sending an empty shell spinning through the cool clean air.

"Let it go."

And so I did.

Had I one round left, perhaps I would have eaten it myself.

This place just isn't the same anymore; the people who once fought the flood have fled to higher ground. There's no safety here, no feeling of love or friendship or kindness. One friend lies bleeding on the floor; the other looks betrayed, wounded, and I certainly cannot blame him. For the first time in years I can see that we are all the same: the man, the beast, and the soothing voice.

There's nothing left for me here. I know that now.

But I still don't know how to let it all go.

I pull the chain to the bare bulb dangling overhead and watch as the cellar is cast into darkness. The only light comes from the open door to my left, blinding me with its promise of possibilities beyond this room.

This brand new day.

"Goodbye," I say. Anything else would just echo.

I cross the threshold cautiously, pulling the door shut behind as I leave.

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