The bed is made and he sits in the middle of it, contemplative. A closed metal box rests beside him, and for a few moments he doesn't look at it. When the ticking of the clock on his dresser is no longer as comfortable as before, he removes a key from his pocket and unlocks the box. A small .45 gleams in the moonlight shining through his open window.
His fingers caress the smooth metal, and he removes the Smith & Wesson from the box. His father always kept the bullets in a separate room from where he kept the locked box, so he'd already retrieved one earlier on in the day. As he puts in the bullet he walks over to his bedroom window, feeling the cool breeze against his skin. He breathes in deeply and closes his eyes, enjoying the scent of the pines outside and the cold feeling of the metal against his temple.
He swallows the lump in his throat, opens his mouth in a rushed exhale of breath and tastes the salty water that drips into his mouth. His eyes open and his gaze rests up on the moon, the only light that he can see. With this image branded in his mind, along with the unspoken words of everything he will never become, he curls his finger as tightly as he can.
