warning

I’m sorry for the demon I’ve become.
You should be sorry for the angel you are not.
I wonder how its gonna be when I don’t wake up.
Some words when spoken can’t be taken back.
I’m becoming more and more comfortable with the idea.

Everything is ready. Except for my family. I don’t want any one to miss me. Not like they will anyway. If I was still jumping, this would be so much easier. Blame it on a chute failure. Pour me from my boots and into a grave.

Now the biggest enemy I face is myself. I’ve got a fairly reliable method for self-disposal. One that has proved to be the most suitable for me.

Emotionless emptiness loneliness listlessness

WORTHLESS

The unit I was assigned to has a ritual.
One round of the caliber of ammunition that you fire, an expended shell from your mirror, and a triple shot of your favorite drink. Arrange the items on a table. Say what needs to be. Then crossover.

I’m in my blues. Sitting at my table. On the table is one round of hornady 357sig hp, my favorite round. One expended casing of 7.62×39 fmj. As well as a full bottle of Johnny Walker blue label. Pandora is tuned to some incoherent noise, loud enough to muffle the sound of my silent pleas. The concept of eternal slumber is appealing.

I will ablige to the requests from schism and spiral out.