He standed up, what an old chair, he headed twoards to gramophone. So silently, let no one hear him, he took the vinyl out of it's case with shaking hands. He looked at it, seconds followed the minutes, it was so dark, pitch black, like a shadow, like his life. He put on it, didn't play it first, made himself a glass of whisky. I mean a glass. Left hand was clenched, like there will be a fist in a second. A tear tried fell down, right hand obstructed it. He couldn't cry, he was the most powerful man in the world. Jack.. In whichever case, he couldn't be weak. He started to play it, it was his favourite, Marche Funebre by Chopin. He always wanted to play this song at his funeral, but playing a song in Jewish funeral? Even a suicided Jewish's funeral? Maybe that was why he decided to be burried in Austria, maybe that was why Chopin asked people to play Requiem by Mozart at this funeral. He opened his left hand slowly, left the pills on the table and started to put bullets in the revolver. He checked it thousand times, just to see everything is perfect. It wasn't like checking, it was like testing himself whether he was scared or not. Everything was perfect, he was ready to go, to go near by the people who he adores. "Santé" he said, "santé Van Gogh, Mozart, Picasso, Dostoyevsky, Chopin, Tolstoy, to you all big heroes" he took all the pills with left hand put them in his mouth, finished his whiskey by the time he pulled the trigger. He learnt this technique from Hitler. He alsı thought that " if this poison won't kill me, i'll pull the trigger". He already told his men to burn himself anyway. At the moment, there was no men to trust, no lie to believe. It was a pathetic end for Jack.
