Its weight was heavy, but comfortable in my hand; so different from my usual weapon of choice. It was cold too, whereas the paper was warm. Holding it made my fingers itch. I curled my fingers around the grip; my thumb flicking the safety off and on. I wasn't stupid enough to have it loaded, but doing so would take no time. Or had I already and only forgotten?
Failure is as good as death.
The words he had said so many times, now internalized, reverberated within my mind. I could not deny that I had failed. I had failed so many times. And Failure was death.
I flicked the safety off as I stared out the window. The glass had been replaced years ago, but it was where he had chosen death over failure when I had bested him. Now I was the failure.
I pressed the barrel into the bottom of my jaw. I had tested so many other places: the side of my head, between my teeth, and more. This one felt… right. The feel of the cold metal thrilled me. My heart raced and my gut did somersaults. One might say it was orgasmic. My eyes slid shut giving me a preview of oblivion.
Failure is as good as death.
I took a deep breath, sighing on the exhale; feeling the weight in my arm, the texture of the grip in my fingers, the pressure of the barrel against my skin. I breathed again, noticing for the first time the warm wetness sliding down my cheeks.
"Bang" I whispered.
In my mind's eye, I could see the bullet igniting and accelerating. I could feel it breaking the skin, shattering my jaw as it passed upward into my skull, through my brain and outward. It would probably embed itself into the ceiling somewhere, but that did not concern me. I wondered how long I would hold onto consciousness, how long it would take for my body to go slack and for it to hit the floor. I wondered who would find me.
I breathed again.
The door behind me opened. At the sound I quickly, but carefully, returned the gun to the desk drawer and closed it.
"Happy Birthday, Seto!" Mokuba called as he entered the room, smiling. He was always smiling. I turned to him, wiping the tears from my cheeks as I did so.
"Thank you, Mokuba." I tried to smile back, but I am sure I was not convincing. He looked at me for a long moment after he handed me a small cake. He had made it himself, I knew. He always made it himself, at least once he learned how to bake, and he convinced the chef to let him use the kitchen. It was simple, but it reminded me of better days—days he barely remembers, but that have been etched on my soul, no matter how much the world has tried to buff them away.
"Seto, are you alright?" His voice was far too young to be filled with such concern. I tried harder to smile.
"I'm fine, Mokuba. I… allergies." I waved at my red-rimmed eyes dismissively
His brows knitted together skeptically.
"If you say so…"
I placed the small cake on the desk and pulled him close, burying my face into his small head.
Failure is as good as death.
The voice echoed in my skull once more, but Mokuba's laughter and smile silenced it—if only for a moment. I have not failed. I have done what I had promised at our parent's graveside. I have protected him. I may have had to endure the "love" of our adoptive father; I may have had to grow up too fast. But I have kept him safe. I have helped him grow strong.
I lifted my eyes from his black hair and looked at the drawer once more, visualizing the weapon lying there, waiting. I could feel it beckon to me as the dark tendrils of doubt threatened to wrap themselves around me once more.
"Let's cut the cake, Seto." Mokuba pulled from my embrace and tugged on my hand, drowning out the darkness's siren's call.
Not today. I thought, allowing myself to be pulled from the grasping inner demons.
Mokuba sliced through the center of the small circular dessert and handed me half with a wicked grin. The cake was blue with white icing. I could not help but laugh.
And it was delicious.