Take two:
There is a bottle of southern comfort here, but I don't think I need it. Don't like the way it tastes, either. Pour some on the floor though, to empty the bottle a little making it seem like I was drunk and didn't give a damn of my decision.
Oh, and empty the container of anti-depressants, just in case. Just in case. Right. Don't really take any of it anyway. But just in case.
So. Glock .17, two bullets in the chamber. But I only need one. Why do I have two?
Oh. Right. The caretaker. So they don't call 911 or anything.
I feel kind of bad for this. Hope I don't go to hell for this. If there is one.
Maybe I'm already there.
Push the red button and a horrible ringing noise fills my ears. Footsteps down the hall. Roll back a little, so you have some room to aim. Okay. The door opens.
"Yes-"
Bang!
I laugh a little bit. Feeling like one of the children at a shooting gallery. A giddy feeling, because you nailed it.
The nameless caretaker falls backward, face blown open like a poorly torn up box. A cat, I think? I don't know. I kind of shot her face in.
Part two.
I stick the second bullet in the barrel- I really don't know how to reload, so I'm doing this old-timey. Haha. There's something comedic about this.
Anyway. Stick the barrel underneath my eye- the one I can't see out of, maybe I can't feel out of it. Then it'd be painless. I hope.
Aim it slightly upwards. A little bit.
I wonder how fast bullets travel? I'll never know. I hope.
"Finally."
click