Long dead leaves, half buried under a fresh dusting of snow, crunched and crumbled under the heels of my boots. The path, though overgrown, was easy enough to distinguish; do something often enough and it becomes second nature. Just ahead, a few yards past the rusted swing in the old oak, lay the place where it'd all began. Beneath the semi-frozen brambles, the peeling green paint was still clearly visible.
It always amazed me how a place that had once been so bright and joyful, had so quickly become the breeding ground for misery.
Another thing that becomes second nature if done often enough? Lying. In the past six months I'd lied more than I'd told the truth. The lies, once told often enough, became the truth.
Really, the same was true for secrets. My secrets. Her secrets. Their secrets. Our secrets. It was too much. Some small part of me wished we'd all been honest from the get-go. Perhaps then we wouldn't be resorting to the drastic measures we are now.
Shakily, I pulled the small pistol from my hand bang. Pressing the cold barrel to my temple, I whispered my goodbyes. None were around to hear them. Then, without a second though, I pulled the trigger.