One Shot (Short Story)
Posted: 2006-12-08 03:53pm
He lived a quiet life.
He looked around the small apartment he called home. The coffee pot was freshly washed, he already had the coffee grinds and filter set up, water waiting to go through the internals and perculate his drink for the next day. The dim glow of his laptop cast a chill light off the coffee table.
He sat in the sofa, leaning forward slightly, looking at the laptop screen. The message still ther, words glowing faintly against the white background. He had lived a quiet life - he paid his bills, he kept out of trouble, and was the picture of the "nice guy". The only thing he ever wanted was to be happy.
The words on the screen haunted him, the had ever since he'd seen them. He briefly fingered the silver framed picture sitting on the coffee table next to the laptop. Yes, he had lived a quiet life, unassuming and quiet - he had let himself become just a statistic, no attention ever drawn to himself.
The sound of the revolver cocking, the hammer sliding into place, then slamming into the firing cap echoed in the small apartment. The splatter of blood, brain and bone made a wet impact on the ceiling and floor. A brief echoing sound, then the room returned to quiet, becoming as motionless as the man who once stayed there.
He had lived a quiet life, it was to bad he chose to end it so loudly.
He looked around the small apartment he called home. The coffee pot was freshly washed, he already had the coffee grinds and filter set up, water waiting to go through the internals and perculate his drink for the next day. The dim glow of his laptop cast a chill light off the coffee table.
He sat in the sofa, leaning forward slightly, looking at the laptop screen. The message still ther, words glowing faintly against the white background. He had lived a quiet life - he paid his bills, he kept out of trouble, and was the picture of the "nice guy". The only thing he ever wanted was to be happy.
The words on the screen haunted him, the had ever since he'd seen them. He briefly fingered the silver framed picture sitting on the coffee table next to the laptop. Yes, he had lived a quiet life, unassuming and quiet - he had let himself become just a statistic, no attention ever drawn to himself.
The sound of the revolver cocking, the hammer sliding into place, then slamming into the firing cap echoed in the small apartment. The splatter of blood, brain and bone made a wet impact on the ceiling and floor. A brief echoing sound, then the room returned to quiet, becoming as motionless as the man who once stayed there.
He had lived a quiet life, it was to bad he chose to end it so loudly.