The Gun

She sat looking at the gun in her hand. The weight of the handle pressed down on her as she contemplated how she had gotten to this point. Did she loath herself that much?  She caught her reflection in the mirror; the pale eyes, the lifeless hair; it wasn’t the woman that she knew.

Depression had been hitting her hard and she couldn’t explain the onslaught of sadness that seemed to rush over her constantly. What was the point of life anyway?  Did anyone know—did anyone care?

Sitting there holding the gun, she thought about the person she had become, and hated herself for it. All she wanted was to find someone who loved her, but instead turned into a loveless monster. Maybe she wanted too much. Maybe what she wanted didn’t exist. Maybe she didn’t have enough love for anyone to return it.

One day, she told herself, I’ll be important enough for someone to notice.  But that day seemed to never come. She thought she had found the one to love her. But she wasn’t important enough to him to leave his wife for. What kind of person was she? When had it become ok for her to be the other woman? The one that everyone abhorred.

He told her that his wife had become ill. She knew then, her feelings shouldn’t be important, wouldn’t be important. The look in his eyes showed the worry that he had for his wife and she knew. How could she still spend time with him, knowing that his wife needed him? She felt so selfish and hated who she had become. Because the selfish part of her didn’t want to let go.

She sighed and looked down at the .38 snub nose in her hand again. If she did, would anyone even notice that she was gone? But she knew that she couldn’t continue on the destructive path that she had taken. She didn’t even like herself anymore, how could she expect anyone else to?  She looked at the pale wan reflection in the mirror once more and watched her hand put the gun up to her temple. The tears were flowing down her face and she closed her eyes as her finger pulled the trigger.

reprinted from Dark Eclipse 11