An/ ok well this Is a story my best friend Aiden wrote. All the credit goes to her and her beautifully twisted mind. So please read and enjoy the story.
Dead Inside
(Prologue)
I suppose that the gun felt very insignificant at this point. He was staring at it like an artist might stare at a crumpled note. It may not seem like much to anyone else, yet it was an inspiration and a fresh new thought to the painter. That's how he felt. A gun would not grab too much attention for a person to glare at it in the way he was doing, although it would grab a bit of interest. Yet it held something that no one else saw but a few observant sad ones. An escape.
He was thinking about the previous night and the deep pool of hands reaching for him. He could feel them scratching his skin and urgent to pull him in. They were filthy and took on the pallor of a dead snow rabbit. His eyes could not blink; he could only hear the thumping of his heart grow fainter. One hand though, was perfectly still and with a warm brown color of skin. He knew very well who this hand belonged too.
He wasn't supposed to have done it. Remorse wouldn't have described the incredible overwhelming feeling he felt now, but it was similar. Nothing was supposed to be this way. He wasn't supposed to be here. Because of this, something that was supposed to happen would: he would die.
There were many equivocations he could have made in his life, and many that could have caused this, but the particular one that did involved love. It was as strange as saying the process of making a gun involved bubblegum. But it was true. Gun? His mind returned once more to the piece of metal before him.
It was about 6 inches long and made of black and grey metal. His initials, A.B., were engraved in it and so were a pair of wings, the type you might see on bats. It was precious and was very costly. But at this moment, he couldn't care less.
His eyes looked around the empty room. There were little things that reminded him of when everything was OK, and it made him sick. He turned to see the hole in the opposite wall and remembered the sound it had made. He supported his hand on the wood desk and leaned over. His balance was too unstable and he ended up lying on the floor. He was trying to hold back tears and vomit at the same time. You can hold back only so many things, and sadness isn't one of them.
Tears separated from his eyes and fell from his skin to the floor, crashing with a sound far too loud, yet not loud enough for you to hear. He got up and kneeled before a picture of himself, smiling. Smiles, happiness. He couldn't take it anymore. He threw up on the carpet he had so many times before walked on. He stared at himself.
What was he? Sick and weak, something he should never be. What use did anyone have for him now? None, not even he himself had any use for a dead mind. He grabbed the gun with anger at his repulsing self and put it to his head. The cold felt good on his fingers for it awakened new desire for death. He had no doubt, he would do it.
A black crow sat itself on the window outside. Not far away, he spotted a piece of bread on the soil and flapped its wings to its food. As the crow picked at it and decided if it was worthy of him or not, I bet if he were human he would have told you the last thing he heard before scrambling away was a bullet shot.
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Ok. Thanks for reading I hope you all loved it. She sends her best regards and love to all those that loved and read it. We also recommend you to bring friends that love music to read the story. Oh she wrote this for an English class and I hope you give her positive credit on it. Now please review!