Ethan sank, into his chair, dejected, after another long, miserable day of drinking away the pain. This day was, in fact, the one he hoped to be his last. Why? Ethan asked himself. "Why?" He vocalized it this time, if for no other reason than to assure himself that he still had a voice. "Why me, the hard worker, the number cruncher, the dedicated employee?" And yet he knew why. His employer had made it very clear, what had seemed like months - but was just three days - ago.
"We're downsizing," began Rickman, his boss. That was all it took for Ethan to understand. "I'm fired?" he asked, hoping against hope that he was wrong. "Er, yes," said Rickman. "We're letting you go. It's nothing personal, just..." "I know," said Ethan, ending the silence abruptly. "I'm the new guy." "Well," said Rickman, obviously uncomfortable, "Yes. I... I think we're done. You may leave." With this, the short, bespectacled man left the board room, leaving Ethan to ponder what to do next.
"Well, this is it," said Ethan to himself, rising from his greasy armchair. When standing, Ethan was much more imposing; however, his bloodshot eyes, gray muscle shirt, messy brown hair, and the first inklings of stubble creeping across his face detracted from this effect dramatically. He was clearly a broken man; neither willing nor able to continue living. As he walked about his apartment, this became clearer than ever..
Dirty socks and empty beer bottles littered the floor. Every trash can was overflowing with snack food wrappers and painkiller bottles. The remnants of yesterday's omlette were collecting the beginnings of mold as they lay, untouched, on the kitchen counter near the sink, and several steadily growing piles of unwashed dishes were partly submerged in soapy water, evidently forgotten. If not for the fact that a hundred-and-seventy-pound man was standing in the midst of the mess, one would assume that several teenagers had broken into an abondoned apartment and thrown a party.
Ethan sighed, flopping onto his small, unmade bed. "It's time..." he told himself quietly. "Time to end it all." After several minutes of listening to his own raspy breathing, Ethan slowly got to his feet. Stumbling over to the cupboard, Ethan fumbled with the knob for a moment before extracting a cheap-looking pistol. Holding the grip weakly in his sweaty right hand, Ethan loaded the small, cold bullet into the barrel of the gun. "Well," he said hoarsly, "Here goes nothing." Raising the gun to his temple, Ethan braced for the pain of the bullet.
Hunched over a chair, the gun pointed at the side of his head, Ethan felt his finger slide over the trigger of the small, black handgun. Three... Soon it would all be over. No more suffering after this. Two... It's for the best. What could possibly make this better? One... Surely this was the right choice? There was no escape from the misery, no end to the pain he felt...
The door behind Ethan suddenly burst open with such force that he was pelted relentlessly with splinters of wood, and several men dressed in black suits approached him. "Mr. Ethan Freeman," said a tall, brown-haired one. "I strongly advise you to drop your gun if you would prefer to keep your right hand."
