I have a good bottle of whiskey next to me. A glass to pour into. A pack of Marlboro reds. Listening to the sound of silence creep behind me. I remember calmly, the sidearm I was issued. I remember the one I purchased.
The chair is a blatant discomfort to my body. The air around me is becoming harder to feel in my lungs. The decadent ways of the reaper appeal to me. Swift. Sure. Calculated. An indifference rises in my mind, but I am quick to cast it. I can’t live like this anymore.
So familiar and overwhelmingly warm.
Spiral out