He keeps the gun tucked away at the back of the large, 19th century style wooden dresser, hidden behind the rows of flashy purple blazers, silk shirts, and over-priced, hand-stitched cashmere jumpers contained within. It's all shit, he tells himself that. All of this. The image, the publicity, everything about Veidt Industries, and his subsequent lifestyle. Phoney, materialistic shit, for lack of a better word. That's the thing with words, Adrian has come to realise, words can only justify so much. In fact, Adrian's words have the uncanny ability to manipulate and warp virtually anyone's judgements into that of his own, or for that fact, whatever he desires them to be morphed into. But when the voice cuts off, what's left? Thoughts. Facts. Images. Nothing left to justify. No need. Adrian finds himself inwardly screaming with frustration and desperation, as he is bitterly reminded of the fact that the only person he will never be able to fool, is himself.
For 15 years, he's been a master of hidden agendas. Lie after lie after lie until, finally, he prevailed. Everything he'd strived for has become reality. Adrian finds himself asking- 'Am I pleased with this?' The answer is, quite bluntly, no. The next question would then be- ' Do I regret it?' No. Again, the answer is no. To him, Adrian Veidt is as dead as the millions he's sacrificed. His own opinion and feelings on the matter be damned, he knows he sure as hell is.
Everyone he's so coldly deceived to achieve this outcome is either dead or sworn to secrecy. He finds himself wondering. He wonders what went through the minds of the Pharaohs' servants, sentenced to die with their master's remains. He wonders how they felt as they watched the brick slide over the tomb opening, sealing their fate forever. He can relate to them now more than ever. His fate is sealed. He knows he will never overcome this, never rise above it, never even feel he should. Adrian knows he will never again feel love, excitement, happiness or relief. All he will ever feel now, is a painful indifference, underneath which lies such a strong sense of guilt, it has been unwillingly suppressed.
Clammy hands wrap themselves around the brass handles of the dresser. He takes the gun out of back, and holds it in shaking palms. He walks over to his bed, and sits down on the purple satin sheets. The softness of the quilt sends a shockwave of feeling through his joints and muscles as he's reminded of how long it's been since he last sat down.
A sticky palm presses gently against the pillow case, and for the briefest moment Adrian is distracted from the shiny, black murder weapon clasped in the other hand. The soft cotton texture of the pillow reminds him of childhood. The parallel between that life and the life he lives now chokes his breath in his throat, and he feels reluctant tears rim his eyelids. For the first time in 30 years, Adrian Veidt wishes that he could be a child once more.
Had he ever even been a child, he wonders. He'd never felt inclined to participate in the simplicity of childhood. To Adrian, there'd always been something more important. Something more demanding. A life long need to fulfill something outside of himself. He wishes now, he'd been born slightly less ambitious, perhaps. Slightly less motivated. In fact, now, he wishes he'd been found out a long time ago, his words failing him, so many lives could have been spared, including his own. He's sure prison would have been more pleasant a fate than this.
He raises the barrel of the gun to left temple. Finally, he can cut off those destructive thoughts, that cursed intellect of his, forever. The hand leaves the pillow, but the thoughts of childhood have not yet been abandoned. He turns the safety off, and takes in a sharp breath. The door swings open.