Trigger
Summary: Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth Chooses Death. What if it was real? What if Edgeworth really had thought that death was the best escape? Oneshot, EPOV.
Hove you ever noticed how one thought tends to trigger another? For instance, if you see an egg, you might think of Easter, or springtime, or breakfast.
Unfortunately, not all thought triggers are as simple as breakfast.
I stare at the cold, heavy object placed in the palms of my hands, as if I don't already know what it is. I bring it slowly upward so it is level with my face. I inhale deeply. The thing that hits me first is the scent of metal, similar to how your hands smell after having held coins in them for a long time. Then, I smell gunpowder. An image flashes behind my eyelids of beautiful fireworks dancing across a black velvet sky. I silently remind myself that now is not the time for reminiscing about seemingly happy Bonfire Nights and other such events. I regain focus, and inhale again. I lick my lips, savouring the deadly gunpowder smell, longing for it.
I look at the item before me like it is a precious artefact. I take in its every surface, join, dent and scratch. I close my eyes but I still see the long, silver cylinder, and the smooth, wood-like handle. I open my eyes again, faintly wondering how something so lethal can be so beautiful. Then I realise that all lethal things are beautiful, if they are seen from the right perspective.
Finally, I hold my prize as it is meant to be held. Its handle slips into my right hand; it fits like it was made for me. The feeling of the icy metal against my hand makes me shiver slightly. My finger weaves itself into its resting place. It feels like it belongs. Now that everything is in place, I have a moment of complete clarity. Fate is what has given me this object; it was always my destiny.
I look down the seemingly eternal cylinder one last time, and see my own eye staring back at me. I search for emotion in my flat grey eyes. Instead of seeing fear or anxiety in my eyes like I should, I see peace. Freedom.
I bring the barrel to the side of my head. My finger tightens around the trigger, unafraid, and strokes it longingly. I make the last move. It's over. It is finally over.