The taste of metal didn't belong in his mouth. It seemed foreign, out of place. But at the same time, it felt right. Like if this was the missing piece of the puzzle that we all strive to complete, and he had completed it. He could feel the ridges and the various edges of the handgun with his tongue. He could also feel the muzzle pressed against the back of his throat, almost as if his own gun was urging him and was whispering silently go ahead. Do it and only he could hear it.

The faint taste of gunpowder lingered in his mouth before being overpowered by the strong, sickening, yet sweet taste of metal. It was beautiful.

It was silent in his dirty, minute apartment. Not a soul had stepped into his living quarters since he rented the filthy place. He didn't enjoy living here, but he figured, after the war ended, that people like him shouldn't live with the rest of the innocent, unknowing civilians. He envied their ignorance, their stupidity. He tried not to glance at the unfinished manuscript at the desk in the corner of the room. It hadn't been touched in over a year and was pretty sure the paper had a coating of dust over them. And that's the way it should stay.

The guilt had festered inside of him, like a parasite, living and feeding off of his memories. He tried to tell himself it was combat fatigue. Shell shock. But in his heart and in the deepest places of his mind, he knew it was lie. They don't call that combat fatigue, they call it cowardice. The guilt tormented him by day and his dreams haunted him at night. He could only handle so much and the day that Reiben gave him a call. You better not publish the damn book; he was pushed over the edge. A violent shiver shook him. He could not live with the fact that because of him his friends were dead. Murdered by the same guy he let live.

He curled his index finger around the trigger. It felt so right. It felt so liberating that he actually had an option other than continuing to live. He smiled for the first time in years.

The next day, they found him sitting in the corner. His pretty little brains served as a decoration on the wall. A last smile etched on his face.

A/N: I was depressed when I wrote this. Excuse the morbid writing.