The last story.

Tick.

Teeth on barrel. He laughed, spine cringing at the soft metal noise. No need to bite the damn thing, but his teeth didn't matter anymore and the steel chill faded quickly. He was tired. Tired of biting the bullet. Bullet, barrel...fuck it. He knew he wouldn't flinch and, even if he did...

He grabbed another piece of printer paper, took a swig from the bottle, and tried again. A few sentences and then it was just the same old bullshit. It was going to hurt, regardless. There would be questions, no matter what he wrote.

He pictured her in his mind and his muscles went rigid with hate. Part of him wanted to kill her, but he knew this would hurt her more. And she fucking deserved it. So what? So much talk. Fuck her. She had the nerve to pervert something he loved, churning out the words like styrofoam peanuts. There was no spice to the writing and people shoveled it in like fast food. And she bragged her little mottled smile...made fun of his friends who weren't "producing". Blind to the fact that when they did, it mattered...not like the shit she pawned off...soiled paper.

His parents would be destroyed. Fuck it. Fuck them. There had been so many paths diverging in all manner of colored woods, but they had picked the wrong one consistently. They built the foundation and he didn't feel much about it. Finishing it, that is.

Michael would be fucking destroyed, but Jesus Christ...how much had he fed that man? How many times had he been the life preserver. He knew he should return the favor...give him a chance to pay it back. Fuck it. He could pay him back with forgiveness.

He couldn't think what to say. Sorry? When you think of me, think good things? Know that I will be happier in whatever void awaits than I am here, on earth, you simple endoskeletal...

His right. It was his. The whole fucking thing. He owned it. He'd put down the tent pegs. He'd closed his eyes when quivering, damp lips led to hands, cold, in places he couldn't speak of. He'd fucking sucked that shit up, so they could take this. Team effort.

The layoffs and the fucking debt and all the goddamn bullshit financial crap that he didn't understand. Judged arbitrarily for things he could not control...ratty hair, old clothes, stench of poverty. Let them feast on it. Let it rise in their throats, acid burning the pink skin, sizzling burnt meat smell. It was all burnt meat. Feast, motherfuckers, feast.

He wasn't happy. That's what it came down to. The past, the girls who had left, the money that had evaporated seemingly overnight. The anger and the sadness. The memories that tried to surface no matter how hard he squashed them down. It was like a summertime child pushing a rubber ball under the limp surface of a blue, backyard pool. You can't keep that shit down. It rises up. Sometimes it explodes. Fuck it.

'I'm not happy'. He stared at the block printing on the sheet and knew it wasn't enough. But it would never be enough. His last act of generosity would be the gift of hatred. He would hate himself until the very last second. Until his finger closed on the cold metal. He would not try to make it OK. And that penance would have to serve. And their hatred would outweigh the loss.

He took another drink from the bottle. Upended it. Held it above his slack tongue while the last few drips fell. He looked at the paper and the gun on the table. Under the three words in the center of the page he wrote, 'It's not your fault'. He moaned a quiet plea and picked the gun back up. It was time to bite the barrel.