A/N: This isn't the fic I was supposed to be writing, but I was in Health class today and I got inspired. We were talking about suicide, and I was thinking about my Espo PTSD fic from before, so this is both of them together. I'm not going to lie, the beginning is terrible, but I promise it gets better. I just came down off of NaNo, so cut me some slack. Let's see how it goes. R&R and thanks in advance! Yours 'till the wheels fall off ;)
"If you play, you play for keeps. Take the gun, and count to three. I'm sweating now, moving slow, no time to think, my turn to go.."-Rihanna
"Do it," he challenged himself, teeth clenched, "What the hell are you waiting for?" The lights were off in the kitchen, and he was alone. But that hadn't deterred him. In fact, if anything, it had pushed him to this...this breaking point, this edge. He could do this. It wasn't as if he had never played before. Whether it was alone or with a group of vets, the game had always calmed him. But now...well now, he wasn't sure that he wanted to be calmed.
The thoughts had started again after closing the sniper case. He hadn't been lying when he'd told Kate that he had been where she was. He remembered those times vividly, like he was watching a movie. The night sweats, the hyper vigilance, the guilt, the shame, the sounds, visions...He had been there before. And as Esposito drew a shuddering breath and downed his fifth bottle of beer...He knew that he was there once again.
He rolled the bullet around in his palms, choosing to overlook the way that his hands shook. All that he had to do was put it into the chamber and shut it. And then it would all be over... Or it wouldn't. That was a chance that he was all too willing to take. Every time that the feelings returned, they came back with a wicked vengeance. At first, when he had come back, they had broken him, struck him down and torn him into pieces. And then he had become stronger, and weaker, and stronger, until he could manage. And then they only came back annually, and he had begun to predict them. But this was nearly as bad as the first time.
He hadn't eaten since the flashbacks started. Hadn't slept either. It seemed like all he had done was drink. He knew that it wouldn't make it better, but it always made it easier. Always. He placed the bullet under one hand and pushed the glass bottles off of the table one by one. He didn't know their names, but he remembered their faces.
Crash!
Brown eyes, brown skin, face deep set with wrinkles.
Crash!
Blue eyes, pale skin. A baby, almost.
Crash!
Green eyes, light spray of freckles that easily blended with the dirt on his face.
Crash!
Dark eyes, coffee and creamer skin. Young. His age.
Crash!
Slanted eyes, white skin, jaw deep set.
That wasn't all of them, but they were the ones he remembered the most. His firsts. And as he finally placed the bullet into the chamber, he knew that he would be his last. Jamming the glock shut with the open palm of his hand, he swallowed one last time and picked up the gun.
It was time to play.