It’s cold. Cold Metal. Feels awkward in my mouth.
I can feel the ridges with my tongue, the odd chip on the side- the engraving near the trigger.
Awkward. My mouth feels that. But the gun, it seems happy- like it's home.
I wonder what’s going to happen next. The safety catch is released. I imagine pulling the trigger, the whirr of the bullet as it leaves its abode to settle into mine. The slide into the barrel, the touch of the bullet to the back of my mouth, the thrust to my hand as it recoils, the burn as the bullet makes its way through my skull, and my brain. The pop- as it all falls apart and I lose my senses. Lose my all.
How will my body respond? Will I lose control? Will my bladder give up on me? Does it matter?
Ha! Vanity- thou art a bitch.
The mirror’s on the side- I can see it from the corner of my eye. See it see me. See it judge me. The bastard. What does it know about living a life? Living my life. Can’t blame it though- it's lot in life.
I look to my right. There he is- Cobain with his haunting eyes- looking back at me. Cajoling me. He gets it. Gets this emptiness, the loneliness. The feeling of being alone in a crowd. It’s the eyes that speak. Come join me, they say. Come as you are. That has me smirking.
I run my thumb over the trigger. That’s all it takes- one push. Seems too easy. Too easy to let it all go. What else can I do though? In my sixteen years, I seem to have lived a lifetime. Had sex. Check. Did lines. Check. Smoked pot. Check. Cut myself. Check. Anything to make me feel alive. And now it seems only death can do that. Ironical.
I close my eyes; feel the saliva trickling down my throat. The taste of metal still in my mouth. I can feel the shudder rising through my hands, to my arm, up my throat to the back of my head. I let my head fall backwards.
Its time.
