Overtaken

Time was slowly stealing away from Steven that evening, he sipped his wine and thought about the day that had just passed. It was uneventful. As always. He was tired, not physically but spiritually. The entire day was nothing but pushing papers around on his desk, a job any moron could do, he thought despairingly to himself.

In his right hand he gripped his fathers pistol tightly and considered his life. Meaningless. Everything is meaningless. He looked down at the pistol, swearing that he had heard that somewhere before. hah! "The ramblings of a tired soul," he said softly to himself, "A person who grips to life and doens't know if he is truely alive." He caught the fingers on his left hand nervously tapping the table next to him. He glanced over irritably, annoyed at the sound.

The telephone, an item he rarely used. His cellphone had taken over, his PDA always at the ready in his pocket, he wondered why he bothered to have a phone at all. It's meaningless, he thought to himself. No one ever calls, no one cares. He knew that was his own fault, he was the person who chose to tell his parents to shove off, he shouted at his fiance many times and almost killed his brother. There was something wrong with Steven, and he could only think of one remedy as his right hand flexed on the handle.

One question nagged at his mind as he continued to stare at the weapon he chose a long time ago would end his meaningless existence. The one question had kept him alive this long and so he had no choice but to think about it, why hasn't he killed himself yet? Does the universe still need him? Is there a God who cares and kept him from commiting this self destructive act? Once again he laughed at himself, more importantly, he thought, who cares?

He pulled the gun up to his head and stuck the nozzle in his mouth, he felt warm tears running down his face as he thought about all those he was leaving behind. He feels his arm growing weak and his will fading. If I don't do this now I'll never do it, he feared. He feared life more than death, but that was beyond healing now. How could anyone so broken ever be fixed? Ever be useful to anyone again? With this resolve he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. He heard a light click, then nothing. The gun fell from his limp hand landing on the paneled floor with a thud, a bullet shot out of it with a loud bang.

Why? Steve demanded, Why didn't it work? And a voice that seemed to originate from all around him answered. "I didn't let it." The voice said, Steve saw now that what his left hand had been tapping on was not a table, but a bible.