Cola and suicide.

The television wavered in and out of focus as lethargy became more and more prominent a factor. The cigarette had burnt down to nothing, now appeared More like a Garnette burning between his fingers and giving off a mixed smell of cigarette smoke and charred flesh. The pain was irrelevant. He waved goodbye to the pretty lady trying her damnedest to sell him cola from behind the glass screen in front of him, then, with a smile of knowing raised the gun to his head, pulled back the hammer and pulled the trigger.The carbon smoke precipitated a rushing warrior of lead which set forth on a terminal mission. He didn't even blink, why would he? He was so close to freedom that he could almost smell the fields of Elysium. The bullet nudged at his head like the nose of an attention seeking hound. It parted the flesh then set to work on the thick bone of his skull. He continued smiling as he focused once again on the screen. The girl, with terror in her eyes, bashed at the set from within, cried a mawkish cry, 'buy the cola,' she cried, 'please, buy the cola...but the bullet was on its mission, could not be reversed now it was damned dedicated. He remembered how the Romans would clean they're teeth with lead...jackasses, beating around the bush. Meanwhile the bullet dug frenziedly at the bone carapace surrounding his brain. He thought of those left behind, they wouldn't miss its self pitying hollers and blights to their smiles. he thought of those he'd loved but never touched. 'you'll be a star in somebody else life but not mine,' she said as she walked away never to return. blood had appeared on the inside of the television set, a painful contrast to the drenched beach where her friends played volleyball, observed by hungry Nubian's. Her palms had spilt the blood in desperation. 'Please by the fucking cola,' she cried; wept pathetically. He was still smiling with an idiots glean, had he won something? The moment held so much memory, so much warmth of ignorant bliss and forgotten exploration into a world that had become disappointing. Tastes and delight, even the bad times flashed with an irony that made them entertaining. So much joy at the end. The bullet was now through the bone, the soft, pink tissue inside would pose little difficulty. He raised his hand to see the smouldering Garnette eating at his flesh and suddenly reviled, flung it away. Two halves of a hole now decorated his smoking fingers. He wept, just like the cola girl. The bullet was now digging at pace through the coagulated brain matter. Did he suddenly want to change his mind? Too late, too late. Inside the glass fronted set the beach shenanigans continued but the girl had departed to drown herself in the surf. A terror descended over him, washed away the revelry of his remembered joy. He wanted those he had abandoned, wanted to feel the love of those he had spurned in life. A caustic rhythm had been circling in his mind; perhaps a root to the depression that had governed his actions, was now released through the bullet hole to make its own way through the winds, an insular gust of sadness. The butcher looks happily upon his masterpiece. The bullet prospected through the pink matter and lunged at the other end of his skull. The bullet blasted forward taking a mound of flesh and bone with it. It embedded itself in the wall. Mission accomplished. His head dropped forward. Nothing...nothing at all but birds at wing in the silence.