Splunker’s The Cat Productions

The young man sat on the edge of his bed. It was late at night. That deepest part of the day where all the light in the world seems foreign and out of place. Of these alien lights pushing back the shadows who roam freely and naturally at this late hour the only ones shining in the young man’s room were the faint red glow of his digital alarm clock, and stripes filtered through a window blind from the street lamp outside.

The young man sat on the edge of his bed rolling the cylinder around and around on the black revolver he had in his hands. He stared at it whimsically. He had already loaded the weapon. He had done so before turning out all the lights in his room, before he removed his shirt and sat on the edge of his small twin sized bed.

The cylinder clicked slowly as he rotated it once again. Deep in the recesses of his mind he couldn’t even believe he was considering this. What had possessed him to think that this would solve his problems? He smirked thinking about the miserable week he’d had before hand. He saw the face of his sister. She was gaunt and pale like he was. She had long brown hair like their mother. She was yelling at him. As he sat there and thought about it everyone he spoke with that week had yelled at him. She was the only one left he cared about. Now he sat there with a gun in his hands convinced there was nothing he could do to rectify the situation between them. His smile faded and he stopped turning the cylinder.

Slowly he raised the gun up. Placing the barrel in his mouth. He tasted the oil used to clean the weapon. The man he had bought it from seemed to be the obsessive compulsive type. The kind of person who would straighten picture frames in a strangers house. Slowly he pulled back on the hammer. He could feel the click of the mechanism vibrate through his teeth.

His finger brushed against the trigger and he swallowed out of nervous reflex. He pushed thoughts of the outside world out of his mind. Focusing on the darkness that would envelope him in only a few moments. He slowly squeezed the trigger.

The last thing he remembered hearing at that point was the click of the cylinder rolling into place. He didn’t hear a bang, or a pop or anything. Whatever allowed him to hear quit working when a bright flash of light shot out of his mouth. He could feel his teeth rattling as the gun fired. His mouth reverberated with the expulsion of gas that propelled the bullet up the barrel. His eyes shook in their sockets and tears streamed down his face though he didn’t remember being particularly sad.

The bullet traveled down the barrel. Sliding forward with enough momentum to pierce through the back of his throat. He could feel the muscles in his neck tighten as the bullet ripped through his flesh. He could feel the response, but he felt no pain from the experience. The bullet soon collided with the top of his spine. He felt it like he’d been pulled backward by a rope around his neck. His head pitched forward as he fell back. He could barely make out a stream of blood flying out of his mouth.

His sight shut off soon after that. The bullet had split into two chunks and were blasted out of the sides of his neck. He could feel none of this though. He could only feel his body grow cold. He could only smell gunpowder and copper.

Richard Cullen died that night. By shooting himself in the mouth with a fourty-five he found release from the world that he felt so oppressed by. His sister would be the only one to truly mourn his passing. She would live her life grief stricken for the way she had treated him the last time they had spoken.

Until the next time they meet. Three weeks later…

This entry was posted on June 20, 2009 at 7:41 pm and is filed under Uncategorized with tags Angst, Fantasy, Fiction, Horror, Story, Suicide. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.