Suicide Fantasy

She wiped her tears away, soft sleeves brushing roughly against the saline residue on her skin. A few gasps, deeper breathes, and her breathing calmed down. And then, silence, tear streaked eyes and reddened cheaks, tired and exausted she sat on the couch, a slump in her shoulders and a gun in her hand. She imagined it, the motion lancing through h her mind. The cool, comforting cold of the gun against her chin.

She pressed the gun into her chin.

The cool hard click of the hammer back against the chamber.

The hammer clicked back

And the final, quick burst of hot from the muzzle as the bullet rushed through her chin, exiting through her brain.

Her finger moved, hesistated, lingered upon the trigger, waiting it, willing it, hesitating upon the image.

The bullet entered through her chin, hot gases of the bullet gunpowder charring and burning her skin as the bullet passed through her skin. Small specks of burning bits of gunpowder impacted into the skin under her jaw, leaving small sizzling craters in her skin, singing hairs and moving outwards in small little waves as the gunpowder hit her skin like meteorites impacting the surface of the moon. The bullet traveled through the roof of her mouth, shattering the bone and sending it spinning out into a radial pattern, a pirouette of bone fragments as they spun with peculiar synchronicity through the air, bouncing off her tongue and finally embedding into her cheeks. The bullet passed through her nasal cavity, shattering the blood vessels inside and causing blood to stream from her nose as though she’d had the world’s worst case of nosebleeds that a person could ever see. It passed her eyes, impacting the nerve and sending a quick jolt of yellow to her vision, her last thought before she would die would be yellow: yellow: everything would be yellow. And then the bullet touched the brain.

It took addition first. One two three four five, add two numbers together to make another number. Cindy, what is the answer? She stared blankly at her teacher, she didn’t know. She couldn’t add. Three millimeters up. She was four, she was learning to ride a tricycle, she ran into a rock and fell over and skinned her knee. Her dad ran over and carried her back to the house, and then the house disappeared, and her dad disappeared, the wound disappeared, and then it was gone. Four millimeters up. Blood rushed into the cavity the bullet left in its wake, short circuiting the neurons left behind, killing them off in a wave of acidic blood. A wave of blood stormed in towards her brain cavities, and her brain sent off another neuron. 7th grade, the school fair. Little Jimmy Parkson was showing her how to shoot a gun. She paid 5 dollars, shot three times, and missed every time. He gave her his duck. She kept it until it fell apart, which was three months after that.

The bullet ripped through her brain, a trail of charred and blackened neurons, sparking in the air behind it. a millimeter before the skull it touched it, pushed through, and the last neuron made it way into her consciousness. It was three weeks ago, two weeks ago, a day. He had gone, in cruel and unhappy ways he had gone and left her alone. And there had been a gun, a bullet, the cool embrace of a stainless steel muzzle pressed up hard against here vein. And then there had been a release, a quick burst of gas, and then it had disappeared.

The bullet exited through her brain, a small star of bone erupting out around it as the bullet sailed away from the earthy confines of her hair, long lashes of black hair reaching up to the ongoing rocketship, flying up into the air upon the waves of dreams, emotions, the great tunneling rocket that had made its way through the earth and off into space. And behind it behind, it all there was she, she a girl, she a person, it a gun, and this a moment.