David sat at the table, flickering candlelight shifting shadows on his face. He knew what he had to do and how he would to do it. The only decision was when. He idly spun the revolver on the table, listening to its ugly sound as it turned. His course of action was chosen.

He sniffed at the wetness in his eyes that he pretended wasn't there and picked up the gun. Slowly lifted it to his temple.

A friend standing in the darkness spoke. "Why?"

David pulled the trigger and opened his mouth to

 

woke up screaming.

Screaming and crying. Enough to blow out the fragile light. Fingers barely stopped shaking long enough to strike a match. The first went out before he could touch it to the wick. The second snapped in half. The third kissed the wick, diffusing a soft glow into the room.

He took a slow, deep breath and wiped sweat and wetness from his eyes. He stared at the gun on the table. Swallowed. Breathing and heartbeat sped up as he lifted the barrel to his temple.

A friend standing in the darkness spoke. "Why?"

"Because it'll get easier."

David cocked the gun.

(fiction)

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