My colt .45 rested in between my hands. It was engraved with a drawing of my mother, complete with roses. It was beautiful. I had used it to take many, many lives. And now, as I sit here listening to the pounding on my door and the men screaming and shouting behind it, I ready myself for the last life it will take. I set my revolver down and open one of my drawers, brushing aside the jewelry and photo's of a past forgotten. I've spent a long time reliving my past, every action I took, every opportunity I missed, all the people who once meant something...All the money I stole, the crowns I took from has-beens and will-never-be's, it mattered, right?
Of course it never fucking mattered. In the moment it was lavish living, trying to capture lightning in a bottle but still trying to cling on to what I use to be. Now it's worthless memories and priceless diamonds, the recipe for my downfall. And I fucking knew it...but I didn't do anything to stop it. It's like the saying, "In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king."
I was the one-eyed man. I WAS THE FUCKING KING! The king of bad choices and regrets, sitting on a throne on top of a morgue. Those kids wants this throne. They're just like me, willing to tear everyone up to get to the top. Why? Why would anyone want this? When they finally kick me off my throne and take my eye, they'll finally see that this is a world not worth living for. There is no heaven on this earth, only our own hell.
But I'm fucking tired of it. I finally found what I was looking for in my drawer. A single bullet, the only pill I'd ever really needed. Fuck the anti-depressants, fuck the Xanax, fuck everything prescribed to me, this is the only thing that can cure me of my disease.
I pick up my pill and load it into the chamber. I smiled a little and spun the cylinder. One last game of Russian Roulette? Sure, why not? I pressed the barrel against my temple.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Click.
...
CLICK?!
I looked at my revolver curiously, and saw that it was jammed.
"FUCK!" Out of anger, I threw the revolver at the ground and almost immediately the bullet shot out the barrel into the wall.
I guess old dogs die hard. Well...I'm in my twenties, but shit it's old in dog years. As I stood up and leaned onto my dresser, I stared into the mirror and reminisced about the time I was a young pup. When I was 18 and just about to finish high school. That's when it all started anyhow.
I remember all I did was play video games, not caring that it was turning me into a sociopath. Well, I did a lot of not caring back then. I didn't care what people thought of me, I didn't care where I was going in life, I didn't care that my parents were splitting up. Oh but I started caring once I had to stick with mom, once we moved to some shit ghetto, with every multicultural folk hating my white ass. It didn't really matter how progressive or liberal I was, I was a problem. But when they started bullying my mom too, that's when I became somebody else's solution.
My father had taken me shooting before, but I never thought in all my life that I'd ever use a gun against somebody else.
