Counting Rice

I was disgusted.
And I don't mean it in the overused, grobian sense of being slightly upset at something in the way a 15 year old with a night life might be when seeing that the entry fee for the coolest club in town went slightly up…
No, I was violently chugging what seemed to be gallons of sour, rough, chunky vomit. Of course the texture is not important; I couldn't feel more than my alcohol-numbed mouth allowed me to at that moment.  It's why I was disgusted that matters the most. I had just witnessed someone's life being taken from them the way I might take a free distribution newspaper from its stand.
I was awakened.
And I don't mean to say I was sleeping, but I was certainly dozing off into ignorance, unable to comprehend the finiteness of all and everything, how easy it is for something that took aeons to develop to be wiped out; like a match that suddenly fades off from the wind, or like a newly blossomed flower is picked up by a toddler who can't possibly understand the concept of "death".
But just like that toddler, time brought me the revelation of "End".
I was crying.
So many years I've spent complaining about life being boring or tiresome or even unfair to me, spent days on end waiting for something to change it and turn It into a Hollywood drama, waiting for purpose… Meaningless, vain purpose. The sudden realisation that I should have been glad for simply being started a whirlpool of emotions so strong it was able to break through the wall of indifference that was already omnipresent in my mind.
I tried to escape.
Denial started to creep into my mind,
"Nothing changed, you're going to go home and nothing will have changed!"
"He's going to be fine, he's not dead…he-he's sleeping –LOOK- He twitched, it's not too late!!!"
I closed my mind, tried to silence that despicable, lying monologue by hitting my head against the wet, cold pavement.
I picked up the gun.
I put it against my head.
I pulled the trigger.

I killed my friend.