The silence was more deafening after the door slammed. He stared at the door a few moments and then made his way up the stairs.
The climb was slow as if the burdens of life were weighing him down. Reaching the bedroom he sat on the bed. He felt tired, tired of the mistreatment, tired of the misunderstandings, tired of the striving, tired of being tired.
He opened the drawer and took out his pistol and lay on the bed. He toyed with the firearm a few moments and pointed it at the wall.
He fired. The bullet hit dead center of her portrait.
The silence that ensued was more deafening than the gunshot.
He relished it and went to sleep.