My Suicide Note

The ice in the glass of whiskey off to my left clinks as it shifts. I’ve got a reason for every bullet on the table set before me. For all the times I lied face to face, for all the assholes judging me, for every punch, every sneer, every scar I wear.

 

It’s a shame I need only one. There’s so many people in front of me that could use them, too. Another sip, more clinking of ice on glass. Another bullet set down.

 

The plated nickel gives way to the snub-nosed spiraling lines ending in pointy darkness. Gun oil is heavy in the air. Another surging teeth grinding wave of frustration has me slide in the bullet.

 

Just for kicks I spin the chamber. Just for kicks I grip it in my hand. Another sip and the glass is closer to being empty.

 

I wonder if it’s me that that imp is in the corner on the bookshelf? I wonder if it’s me that it’s smiling in anticipation? I wonder if it’s just me?

 

This one’s for all the people who knew what I was in before I opened my mouth. This one’s for those who really cared. This one’s for the people I made cry. This one’s for all the people I didn’t have the chance to kill.

 

Another sip. The final sip. The clinking ends as I set the glass down. I spin the chamber again. The gun oil is slick and foreign in my mouth. “It tastes like death,” says the imp with a smile.

 

About fucking time.

 

 

 

©Ramon Sturdivant

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