With a stoic face, I picked up the revolver from within my drawer, and levelled it against my forehead, just above the spot between my eyes. It was an Enfield, a true vintage piece that had passed down through the family, stored hidden away in one of the many packing boxes in the attic of the old house that I happened to chance upon. It was loaded, of course; why would I want to point an unloaded gun to myself?
I cocked the hammer with my forefinger, and closed my eyes. Images of my torrid past flashed before my mind's eye, in vivid technicolour. The people that I had met, either as friends or as enemies, appeared with cruel clarity. Their faces, they all had the same mocking response, staring at me with their mouths grinning vilely, showing their splendid teeth, and their unconcealed mirth at my soon-to-be demise.
Oh how I wished I had the courage to turn the weapon in my hand against them! To pump lead into their gleeful faces and riddle their body with holes so that the fresh blood of vengeance spurts forth---oh I could have done that to satiate my vendetta against all of them! Bleed, yes to make them bleed for all the pain and suffering that they had given me all these years!
But, it was never to be, for the Law forbade me to turn my weapon upon others in the way that I had envisioned. Oh piteous me! Why is the Law so cruel and un-understanding? Why does it mock me so? Why does it limit what I can and cannot do, to those enemies that I want to be grounded into fine dust through the heels of my boot?
No, this is not the way to go, not with my eyes closed. I opened up my eyes, and stared straight at the revolver that I had levelled against myself. My hands trembled a little from holding it up so long, but I feared not death anymore. Surely, anything is welcome when compared to the ignoble existence that I keep myself in trying to live down the bull shit that I had faced.
I would die a man, staring death in the face. Damnit, you forced me, Death! I didn't want to die! You forced my hand, you fiend! Now pay the price of me staring you down, even when all life is extinguished from my body.
Gripping the gun in my already trembling hands, I squeezed the trigger. I saw a bright flash and heard a loud boom, as I felt the gun kicking out of my wimpy hands and flying backwards. I felt a thunk through my forehead, and heard a squelch sound as the bullet passed through my skull. Suddenly, I lost the ability to control my movements and senses, and found myself slowly falling backwards. As my head hit the ground, the last sight I remembered was the face of pure horror when my secretary opened my office door at the last possible moment, immediately after I had pulled the trigger.
