He wakes up everyday, puts an empty gun in his mouth, and pulls the trigger. Well, a mostly empty gun anyway.

John had at one point in his life not been very happy. But not so unhappy that he could commit suicide. As a young boy he held a revolver in one hand, bullets in the other but he was scared so he decided to leave it up to God. He put one bullet in and spun the cylinder just like he saw in the movies. He only pulled the trigger once.

Afterwards, John put his dad's gun and the bullets back where he found them but kept the one bullet he loaded into the gun and put it in his pocket. It became a good luck charm, a sign that God wanted him to live.

Later, in college, John began to doubt the meaning of it all. And so, being old enough, he dipped into his savings and bought a revolver; the same kind his dad had. Back in his apartment he took out his lucky bullet, loaded it into a chamber, spun the cylinder, pulled the trigger and heard the gun go *click*.

Now, it wasn't healthy, nor sane but it got to the point where doing this was a regular thing. Whenever something bad happened, or a big decision was coming, John would get the gun, pull the bullet out of his pocket and see if God wanted him to live.

He did it before every exam in college. He did it after his girlfriend broke up with him. He did it the night before job interviews. It became his way of fortune-telling.

And now, Now John wakes up everyday, puts the gun in his mouth, and pulls the trigger.


He sits alone in room empty save for himself, his chair, and the hanging light flickering above his head. In his hand is a gun. He has no right to have it. Not only is it illegal, but he knows nothing about it. It was bought for one just purpose. One use.

Idly, he ejects the magazine, replaces it, and then ejects it again.

He doesn't know why he's hesitating now. He's done it before.

He remembers.

The feeling of utter despair. Of knowing he'd gone as low as he could stand and the refusal to allow himself sink any further. The feel of cold steel pressed his mouth. The small click followed by the much louder bang.

Mostly, though, he remembers what happened after.

He'd gotten back up.

Blood was spattered across the wall and carpet. His blood. But when he felt his head, he was whole. The bathroom mirror had confirmed it. The nose of the gun was still hot. The room stank from the shot. But he was whole.

So he'd tried it again.

And again.

He was in tears when the police arrived. They hadn't believed the blood and gray slush spread across the room were his. How could he explain chunks of his brain across the floor while his own was still obviously in his head?

Things got complicated after the DNA tests.

But he's here again and now his hands are shaking.

He was ready for this months ago. So why are his hands shaking now? They hadn't shaken the first time. Something feels different. Maybe this time it will work. Was he really ready for that?

He doesn't know. So here he sits alone in his room, loading and emptying his gun.


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