This is a flash fiction piece with some art by Stuart Mullin. He also did my home page art which is meant to depict some of my novel characters. You can check out his art and web comic here: http://statrux.deviantart.com/gallery/
His hand was shaking as he brought the gun to his temple. He could feel the bullet ripping through his brain already. Forefinger twitching restlessly, he placed the gun back down gently, carefully, as if the pistol were a delicate flower. He was not ready yet. There was one last bit of unfinished business that he had to attend to, one last note to write, one last thought before he could give up. Writing for almost half an hour, pen skirting away at the parchment, he finally finished his note, laying the pen down and picking up the gun. Holding the pistol, he turned it over and over in a caress, his eyes gazing at it in awe and worship, as if it were his one and only God. He set the gun down beside the pen, folded the letter, and put it in an envelope. Already addressed and stamped, he walked out to the mailbox, his dry tongue trying to seal the envelope shut. He paused before the mailbox, holding the letter close. Although addressed and stamped, he really had no one to send it to. By writing the letter, he felt more at peace knowing that someone would know his despair, but no one would know until it was too late. Crushing the letter in his hand, he walked back up the driveway. His knees crumpled when he reentered the house and he pulled himself to his feet with the doorknob, the finality of the situation caving in on him. Leaning against the door wearily, he gave a sigh of absolution. He wondered how long it would be until they found his cold body, how soon anyone would find him. Would they open the letter? Would they see his last thoughts, black ink on white parchment? Would they even care? He wavered back to his desk, throwing the crumpled letter down and picking up the pistol once more, beginning to laugh. It started as a broken, hopeless cry, then grew into a loud, hysterical triumph. They had won. They had shattered his spirit, torn him apart in every way possible. There was no feeling as awful as that of being alone in the world. No one ever thought he would be the kind of person to give up. But they forced him to the breaking point. They tore him down, like a tree being ripped by the roots for lumber. He didn’t want to fight anymore; life was too rigid. A peaceful smile crossed his lips as he raised the pistol to his temple.
There is also a Kindle version of “Trigger” available here ($0.99) that includes an original version written by my (deceased) mother, as well as an introduction by me. The above is a reworked version by me.