They couldn't figure out which was harder – trying to be perfect, or being perfect.
An unspoken pact they fashioned that night, a promise made by two children on two intertwined pinkies. The looks they exchanged narrated their tale; the frigid warmth of the other's company sealed the vow. Never before had the phrase Now or Never applied to the brothers before.
The loaded revolver throbbed and thumped like a heart in his bag. Soon, the bullets would instigate a shockwave in the motionless air.
Whispering his farewell, his finger reclined on the trigger. The trees wept profusely and a dog yowled in the distance. The atmosphere quavered, and the younger fell. He inspected his irreversible work like an assassin with no empathy. After all, there is no such thing as sympathy for the dead.
Subsequently, the cold, ebony metal touched his forehead, delivering shivers down his spine. The bullet surged, but life did not flash before his bleak, empty eyes. Only blue and red beams.
His lips curved into an ominous smile as he said, "Too late."
Somewhere, he was wading through freezing water, across the line of sanity and life. Nostalgia satiated his vacant being. He was going home.
