Every five seconds someone is dying.

Car crash.
Cancer.
AIDS.
Murder.
Suicide.

I bet neither you nor me don't even think about it. Why bother, right? We are one hundred percent sure about the next morning.

Aren't we?

*
The alarm clock. Wake up. Bathroom. Shower. Shaving. Dressing. Pants. Pressed shirt. Tie. Holster. Jacket. Breakfast. Two toasts, butter, jam and strongly brewed, sugar-free coffee. Turn off the lights. Shoes. The keys. Grab a coat. Lock the door. Keep to the speed limit and get to work.

That's how most of my days begin, and end the same—sending the case report about another one thug of a criminal our team's caught and locked up.

That's how it'd always been.

Until that very day.

When I got Audrey back.

My Audrey.

*
I spent five years trying to make my name, chasing a notorious elusive "Concierge of Crime" Raymond Reddington.

Five fucking years!..

No one could compete with him. My best pals quit asking if I'm free on Fridays, and my colleagues—asking me out for a drink or two.

Audrey stood a little longer.

Until she gave me the ring back.

"You're engaged with him, Don. And your job."

I don't blame her.

*
I'm used to do my job in a certain way.

Gather evidence. Lay out the facts. Connect the dots. Point out possible suspects. Bring them in for questioning. Prove they're guilty. Close the case.

The world is black and white for me. Good and evil. I have faith in the system, because my job's to uphold the law and punish those who're breaking it.

My job isn't about guessing or profiling. It's all about facts and proof. And, most certainly, it's not playing ball with Interpol's "Number One", traitor and double intelligence agent.

My job was all that until Raymond Reddington surrendered the FBI, and I'd gotten a case heavily tied to my past.

*
Three months.

Is it a lot or a little?

90 days. 2160 hours. 129600 minutes. 7776000 seconds.

Because of a completely impossible coincidence in my paradigm, Audrey had been brought back to me.

For just three months.

"You sure you're alright, Donnie?"
"I got lucky. They're saying I'll be good as new in a few weeks."
"I'll stay and make sure of that."

Her genuine smile tore something away in me.

It couldn't be...

"You okay with that?"
"And him?" I'm pointing out to a new engagement ring, "I'm your ex, after all."
"He'll understand."

*
On average, a bullet travels at over 4,000 feet per second.

Is is possible to foresee this bullet to have gone through your girlfriend, her body collapsing on a dirty pavement?

Is it possible to foresee your best friend and partner to secretly murder in cold blood a yakuza boss and take over his business?

It it possible to foresee that the brother of the deceased would be seeking revenge, leaving a corpse trail of wives and kids?

Is it possible to foresee that Raymond Reddington, the "Concierge of Crime" would be the only one to truly fathom the hate and desire to avenge Audrey's death?

I'd never found the answer to that.

*
Another knock on the door.

Fuck you all.

Fuck these walls. Fuck another report. Fuck the taste of a strongly brewed sugar-free coffee, its bitterness a constant reminder of how I'd fucked it all up.

Fuck it all.

*

Her things are still at my place. She'd never had the chance to put them on a free shelf in my closet.

*

I'm breathing in a delicate scent of her perfume. Something very light and subtle. It's the one. The day we met.

I have to let her go.

I have to.

Have to.

But I can't.

*
"Take a couple of days, grieve. There's no shame in that."

My firm and polite "No" puzzles the opponent.

I don't need your compassion.

I don't need your understanding.

Leave.
Me.
The fuck.
Alone.

*
Days are blending in one. Hour by hour. Minute by minute. Long, empty and liveless.

*

...Something has fallen out from her make-up bag. I guess, one of those women things.

A pregnancy test.

I'm doing a quick math.

A week, then. Maybe, a bit longer.

I'm literally knocked off my feet realizing it. Something else is falling down shattering into pieces.

I don't care.

Hot, scorching tears are running down my cheeks.

I don't scream.

*
Since that day all my evenings begin with a bottle of whiskey. Dry.

But I can't get drunk.

Then another one.

The third one—and I'm finally knocked out on my couch.

*

If it's Friday, I'm going out to a bar nearby. Rudely than usually, I brush a couple of girls off hanging around, looking for a cheap treat.

I start with beer. Then shots. Bourbon. Whiskey. And if by this time my stomach isn't turning, I'm drying a couple of tequilas.

When it's almost closing time, I'm asking a bartender to call a cab.

*
Each time I got into a shooting, I was hoping I'd catch a bullet.

But the God had seen into it the other way.

*
Unloading a gun has always been the best stress reliever for me. I could easily do it with my eyes shut.

Press the mag catch and remove the mag. Remember that any of your fingers shouldn't be near the trigger while doing that. Now, pull back the slide as far as it goes and hold it open by pushing up the catch slide lever with your thumb. Check carefully for any left ammo in the chamber. I mean, check. Carefully. At last, release the slide on an empty chamber and depress the safety lever. You may also unload your mag and check if you need more ammo.

You can do a field strip in case your gun had been wet from snow or water. I sometimes do it. Not too often, though. But if I do, I can strip and assemble it well in under two minutes.

Let's assume you're curious about the field strip. Let's also assume you have already unloaded your gun.

First, turn the take-down lever to a 6 o'clock position and pull back the slide slightly. It will disengage the slide lever. Hold the slide firmly and let it glide forward gently. Don't be in a rush if it's your first time doing that. Now, slip the complete assembly, comprising slide, barrel, recoil spring and guide forward and off the frame. The recoil spring is under tension, so be careful when removing it. Finally, remove the barrel from the slide.

It sounds difficult but trust me, it's far easier once you try doing that yourself.

*
I always carry my gun with me. And lately, in spite of Audrey's killer is dead, I'm used to fall asleep with my gun under the pillow.

I'm not being paranoid, no.

Just a precaution. That's it.

Anyway, I've started having this kind of fun—if you can call it like that—unloading the ammo from the mag, lining up all the cartridges, one by one on the table.

And I'd stare at them, thinking.

Thinking...

*

Once in two minutes someone is commiting suicide.

Statistically, those who keep a firearm in their house are committing suicide ten times often than those who don't.

For every criminal killed by a firearm stored at the house, there are thirty seven suicides who had killed themselves with their own.

*

There's no one to leave a note for, so the "Mail" tab is not even opened.

I'm not registering that I'm fixing my tie so casually like it's one of those days I'm up and ready to go.

And only the dim lights above my head remind me it's not another morning.

I'm fidgeting one of the fifteen cartridges for my gun.

The cartridge isn't getting any warmer in my palm.

Like an unmelting ice cube, burning the skin with its coldness.

The gun is on the table—its surface scratched from the knife and stained from numerous coffee mugs.

My phone is set to "No Disturb" mode—I don't want anyone to bother me.

My heart is beating unusually steady—I'm trained well, after all.

Audrey comes into my thoughts again.

Her smile.
Her laugh.
Her touch.
Her scent.
Her voice.

Her whisper.

Her last words.

My hands covered in her blood.

That was my bullet.

And tonight I'm gonna make it right.