Countdown
The first time, he puts it at his temple.
The gun is nice and slick, and he can feel the slight weight of the bullets pressing on his palm and he wonders how many times he'll manage to pull the trigger before he dies.
He wants to make sure it works.
But then he removes it from his temple, and fidgets with it, moving it from one hand to the other and back again. He takes out the bullets and cleans them with a sterilized rag - well, as sterilized as a rag can be - and he puts them back in and counts them one by one.
One, two, three.
God, make it work, please. Let it work.
Four, five, six.
He sighs and puts it agains his temple again, his finger on the trigger but before he can pull it, something in him snaps and he puts the gun down. He rushes out of the house, feeling the green behind his eyelids as he keeps his eyes shut, and he focuses on his breathing. In, out. In, out.
It doesn't work and, before he can control it, the Other Guy takes over.
The second time, he doesn't hesitate as much.
He pulls the trigger once, and then again and then again. He then sets the gun down and sighs.
Maybe next time, he'll manage to do it with the bullets.
The third time, he's determined.
He's got the gun cleaned and the bullets in, and he even tries one out to see if it'll shoot. He surprises himself with the precision he has as the bullet hits the empty can set on an old, worn out wooden chair, directly at the middle. For a moment, he actually thinks that it might work. But, the second he puts the gun to his temple, a series of hysteric knocks come from his door, and he hides the gun under his pillow before opening them to a worried woman with a sick child in her arms.
The fourth time, he's had enough.
He's had enough of trying and failing and hating himself more and more with every try. He is a monster. He does not deserve to live.
He is a monster. He kills and he hurts and he ruins everything.
He yells out in raw pain and frustration, knowing well that no one can hear him for miles. Although, even isolation didn't make him less of a threat. The rage inside him was infinite; constantly growing and never fading. He was always angry.
He was tired of being angry.
So, with tears in his eyes and after hours of pacing around, eyes locked on the gun lying on the table - a possible answer to the prayers he sent to a god he doesn't really believe in - and on the five bullets lying next to it, all neatly placed in one line, he finally takes a seat on the wooden chair and grabs the gun and the bullets, preparing it with precision and skill and speed that came with taking it apart and putting it together more times than he could count. He puts it together in record time and sighs once before putting the gun to his temple.
In the last moment, he takes it off his temple and forces his in his mouth. He can feel the other guy's anger rising as his tongue tastes the led of the gun. He decides to ignore it and he closes his eyes.
Bruce Banner puts a bullet in his mouth, and the Other Guy spits it out.
(He tries it again, though. And again and again and again until he runs out of bullets.)
(Natasha Romanoff visits two weeks later.)