Beyond the ugly grey window an ugly grey sky peered down at the ugly grey world. The blinds unfurled and the bleak little room stood ever bleaker still; in this room a vixen sat and shot herself in the head in succession. The gun wasn't loaded so she wasn't dead. She wasn't dead so she continued shooting herself. Cilckclickclickclickclick.
Krystal McCloud had a life and she was downright bored of it. Click.
She had a husband whom she once loved and now hated. He did nothing but eat and sleep and disappear off for work at odd hours in the morning only to rematerialize in bed when she thought that he was gone for good, and that without remorse. He rarely tried to be compassionate; when he tried to be compassionate he treated her like a cheap whore. When he wasn't, he appeared indifferent to her existence. Clickclickclick.
She had a son who got drunk on weekends and high on weekdays and sometimes both at the same time. He wallowed in his own sadness, honed it and contemplated it, which only made him sadder and all the more apt for self-pity. He thought himself an utter, total failure and made no personal attempt to remedy it so he stayed an utter, total failure. Oh Well. Clickclickclickclickclick.
And as for Krystal McCloud, she was heartless and listless and numb. She loathed the world because it jeered at her. She loathed herself because it was right. Clickclick.
She was tired so she set the gun down and fell asleep on the chair. The next day the world was as grey as the night before. She awoke and the gun lay on the table exactly as she had left it. She picked it up and held it to her head for the thousandth time. She hoped someone had loaded it in her sleep.
Click. Click. Click.
To her dismay, it wasn't.