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Published: 2011-09-15 03:57:41 +0000 UTC; Views: 44; Favourites: 1; Downloads: 0
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The gun is sitting on the table, barrel pointed to me. It almost feels as if it's staring back at me.I shiver.
My hand reaches out, seemingly of it's own accord, and begins to trace the shiny black contours. I know very little about guns, and do not know this model. Only that it is beautifully deadly.
My fingers wrap around the grip, and I slowly pick it up, only a few inches off the table.
Yes, yes, the voice says. Keep going…
I raise it a few more inches, moving it closer to myself. Now I'm holding it above my lap.
Keep going, the voice whispers again. It almost seems that my slowness is causing pain. I dislike the feeling and swiftly raise the gun to my head, pressing the cold barrel to my temple. My thumb searches for the safety.
Please. The voice is begging now, desperate. Begging for release.
I find the safety and flick it off. It clicks softly.
My index finger finds the trigger on the unfamiliar landscape. It slips into place.
Yess… The voice hisses, eager.
In the nanosecond before I squeezed the trigger, I realized the voice is inside me. It is mine. It was never in pain, not really. But by now it's too late.
I'm already dead.