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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