What Is Mine

Whistling a jaunt tune to himself, the retired coroner pulled a set of keys from his coat pocket, twirled them about his finger once, and slid one of them into the door of a large, modern mansion.  The house was truly beautiful and, by all accounts, a present-day palace.  He stepped inside and, with a deep breath, took in the mixed odors of old leather, old scotch, and new everything else.  There was nothing he loved more than this house.  It included seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, two studies, a full library, an exercise room, a parlor for entertaining guests, and a kitchen any chef would kill for.  He felt as though it had been made just for him.

Looking forward to a glass of his scotch in front of the large fireplace, the good doctor walked into the larger of the two studies.  He had ended each night for the past two weeks in this same way and had decided that it was the only way to live.  Picking up a crystal glass, he  placed two, perfect cubes of ice into it and unstoppered his scotch, filling the glass to the top.  It had been a long day.

Sipping at his drink, he walked to the glass patio doors and smiled smugly at the expansive grounds and Olympic-sized swimming pool.  The massive yard was surrounded on all sides by ten-foot hedges that kept prying eyes away from the private office despite the glass doors and floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of them.  He smiled and took another drink, remembering a time in his life when everything had fallen apart and what few things he had held dear were taken away from him.

His face turned bitter in a moment of weakness, but he soon brushed those thoughts aside and reminded himself that nothing could be taken from him now.  He considered taking a stroll around the estate to clear his head, but found that his anger subsided more easily with the passing years and a walk was unnecessary.

Turning from the glass doors, he walked back to his small “bar” and opened a box sitting next to his set of clean glasses.  He pulled a cigar from the box and clipped the end with a silver cutter.  He struck a match and lit the cigar, taking three deep puffs and exhaling, the nicotine hitting his blood stream and relaxing him. He closed his eyes and allowed the magic drug to do what it did best before walking to the cozy seating arrangement around the fireplace.

He sat in the large, leather chair that was sitting adjacent to the gas fireplace, which he turned on by flipping a switch built into the end table sitting next to him.  He turned his gaze, then, to the recliner directly across from him, wondering if it was too late to save the leather.  The body had been sitting there for months and, though the decay was so far advanced that one could begin to see the grayish skull behind the bullet wound in the man's forehead, the doctor didn't seem to mind the smell.  He raised his glass in toast to former owner of the home, and said slowly, with respect, "What's yours is mine."