You put the gun up to your head. You feel the hard, cold end as you press it to your equally chilled skin. Your breathing is steady, calm in a strange way. Memories are flashing before your eyes, but at this point they're all a sickly blur of colors: a myriad of green and black, dashed with red stripes and tattered lines of orange.
Through the gray smoke beginning to cloud your vision you see two silhouettes standing, side by side, smiling. You see someone sitting alone, a small figure covered in drops from the pouring rain. Through the thick sheets of rain you can barely make out a single pale tear trailing down the face of the boy who's begun to melt away.
A ghastly concerto begins to play, the first screeches of the violins tear through your ears like a knife as the tympanis beat like a pumping heart, matching the beat of your own. As the music crescendos and the drums grow louder, so too does the beating of your pulse.
Suddenly, the blood inside you becomes very alive. Your breathing becomes rigid, your senses are more awake than they have been for quite some time, as if the dulling anesthesia of depression has been lifted from you like laughing gas in the dentist's office. The pain is gone, replaced with a thumping in your ears as you realize this is the end.
You start to wonder how this could be the end. Life is all you know, is all you could possibly know. You don't know what comes after the end. Will the lights come up as the audience applauds and you take your final bow after the endless torment of a cheaply written piece for theatre of the absurd has finally come to a screeching halt at the end of the sad jester's life? Or will the tinkling of angel's wings greet you instead as you feel the fist of God smash through the back of your skull at ninety miles per hour?
But you know it's too late to look back now. The contemplation has come to an end. The questioning and doubt has been terminated. You stand at the edge of the void, knowing soon you'll fall in with a half-broken smile as the bullet of mercy tears apart what it took several thousand dollars and a lot of dentistry and oral work to fix over the last sad years of your petty existence.
You bring the tool, no longer a weapon, closer to you, pressing it as hard as you can to your now dark lips, awkwardly kissing it like the loved one you never knew.
You've lost control, black mist now encircling your pupils. A single tear falls from the corner of your eye, for a moment parting the darkness that has created a thin, transparent curtain of gray across your eyes. Your body shakes, your spine shivers, but you and your body are no longer one, but rather two separate beings. You stand beside yourself, silently waiting for the inevitable.
And as you see this pathetic fool standing next to you prepare for the blinding power that will set him free, you see him fall to the ground, sobbing. You see that there was never a gun at all, but only his ice cold hand that had just moments ago formed the shape of a pistol before falling apart into four fingers and a thumb, once a trigger in some sick yet hopeful imagination, as the poor soul begins to cry. The boy in his mind's eye disappears. The orchestra plays no more, the violas now sit silent. The two silhouettes look on in blind ignorance. The curtain falls. The audience applauds.
All but the jester smile.
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