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The bulbs in the cold, white padded room flicker. They nag at your conscience like a doubt at the back of your mind. Suddenly light consumes your world and leaves you blind and searching for something to clutch. You are as helpless as a newborn child thrust into the chaotic random whirlwind of our so called world. As the brilliance fades you begin to define shapes, people, things you know, or did once upon a time. As you rise slowly from a drunken stupor, you realize that the padded room was all a dream, and your bed is just as inviting as it was hours ago when you first lay upon it. Still fully dressed, you wander through the mess and disarray of what was once your home. Now, it is all but recognizable, although, through a haze you see the revolver sitting lonely and cold on your writing desk. A still unfinished story begs to be completed, but the cries of that horrible cold steel are far louder. They dominate your thoughts and leave nothing else to question. It is then that you see the remains of a bottle of brandy, broken and scattered about the floor. Careful not to tread on those sparkling shards of what might be a broken dream you trapse over to the desk. Silently, somber, you grasp the smooth wood of the butt, and search the drawers in vain for at least one bullet. The answer to the question you forgot. Finally! You discover that which was lost and slide the all knowing, glorious, precious gem into it's rightful home. The metal is cold against your temple, but it relieves the tension, calms you, comforts you, and whispers sweet nothings in your ear. Hesitantly, ever so slowly, your finger hugs the trigger, squeezing, not pulling, as if in a macabre courtship with satan himself. All the while, He looks down, shaking his head, or is he really there? You'll never know, You don't care, because you have the answer in your hand, and in one perfect moment, it is revealed.
Nothing...