the trajectory of a tragedy

The cold metal sends an icy tingle racing down the spine and out to the nerves as the barrel of the revolver slides into the mouth. For a while, the lips tremble and the momentary rattling of teeth against the barrel reverberates within the ears. A single pearl of sweat abandons the assemblage of moisture on the left temple, rolls down the cheek then breaks off upon reaching the jaw. The lungs relax. The heart eases back to its natural beat rate. The goosebumps retreat into the skin. A blink of the eyes imprints an image into the brain, which then sends the austere command to the right hand that holds the gun. Abandoned by its fellows to spend their final moments together tightly around the ivory grip, the index finger with the black nail polish immediately receives the message as it hugs the trigger in a liberal embrace. Without another second of hesitation, the lonesome finger performs its final duty.

On the other end of the trigger, a lever pushes the hammer backward. The coiled spring inside the grip is compressed at the exact same time that the ratchet is nudged to rotate the cylinder into position where a bullet nestled in a chamber awaits to be deployed. The spring kicks the hammer forward. The firing pin extends and strikes the primer of the bullet which consequently explodes and ignites the propellant within the bullet casing. The resulting pressure hurtles the bullet down the barrel at an unstoppable speed.

The blast burns the tongue and sears the inside of the cheeks. The lake of saliva fizzles. The spinning bullet drills into the roof of the mouth, burrowing furious force in search of an exit. From the soft palate, it passes through the nasal cavity and pierces the medulla oblongata, scratching the pons varolii as it goes by. It digs into the cerebellum's arbor vitae before creating a canal between the temporal lobe and the occipital lobe. Finally, it perforates the cranium, bursting out of the scalp in a spray of blood.

The ceiling above becomes the canvas for a red splatter painting, adorned with small pieces of brain and bone. In its center is a tiny crater where the bullet has chosen to rest.

The body remains upright and motionless for a short period of time and from a proper angle, one could peer into the gaping mouth and look through tunnel that the bullet has just produced to see the masterpiece on the ceiling. With a sudden spasm, the body turns limp and teeters backward, falling through a glass table then onto the floor. Fragments drop into open eyes, stabbing the cornea, bathing the blue irises with crimson tears. A thin veil of smoke rises from the revolver barrel, hangs in the air and then vanishes...

*****

dear mom

ive always hated movie suicide letters that begin with "by the time you read this im probably dead" but i couldnt do no better so do my own version of it.

by the time you read this, its maggot christmas since you and dad are on you anniversary vacation and my pathetic excuse for brother is in some stupid summer camp. speaking of the that devilspawn give my whole dvd collection to him by the way since he never returns them when he "borrows" them from me. and while im at it give all of my books to my only friend Drew except for The Sorrows of Young Werther because i want to be buried with it. i dont care what you do to my clothes. donate it to charity sell them on the internet or make a fucking quilt. i have no money to give away because i spent it all drinking last night. i puked in the toilet and didnt bother to clean it up so sorry.

i dont know why but i keep remembering my first day in school and you made me wear that stupid cap with the clapping hands.

anyway thank you for trying your best to love me for who i am. or was.

love
SAM.

ps. oh yeah if youre wondering why i did this: dad has been cheating on you by raping me.