BB's

Charles was finally able to get the barrel of the shotgun into his mouth. It was a real stretch, but he did it. Now, sitting on the couch, in only his socks, he managed to get his toe on the trigger. One slight push and he left a terrible mess for the poor guy that would find him three hours later.

Wallace limped as he walked. It had only been six blocks, yet his ankle was killing him (not literally, though). It had been 3 months and he consistently used the BB gun on his ankle. The gun had been a gift from his uncle, (“a boy should know how to use a gun”, he said), and Wallace used it, every day, twice a day, to shoot himself in the ankle, in the exact same spot. Why, he could not be sure. But at least he was consistent.

“I’m starting to feel and all I feel is sad,” he said with a flat voice. This thought and the bitter taste of metal were the last two experiences he would have. But that last second of existence lasted an eternity, as he pondered the futility of mankind’s efforts. Not that everything was futile. Even something as insignificant as the giving away of a water bottle on that hot day in August was not futile. It was the money, the entertainment, the bright and shiny things of distraction that caught and held the attention of so many, for so long, that really bothered him.

He sat on the sidewalk and held his head. Sweat ran in beads into his eyes and his stomach felt like lead. He had no choice but to walk another 17 blocks, as the previous 17 blocks only took him away from his home. His socks were soggy, his ankle ached and the taste of the mornings bitter coffee would not leave him. He lifted his head and looked upon the teeming masses that passed by on the opposite side of the street, all oblivious to his plight. And Wallace knew all too well that none of them cared.