Luke brings the bottle to his lips. He closes his eyes and finishes off the beer, slamming the bottle back onto the table. He stands up to get another one from the fridge, and when he sits back down, he picks up his gun. He examines it, and then he pops the magazine out. This morning, the magazine had its full seventeen rounds in it. Now, it only had twelve – five shots have been fired so far. He slides the magazine back in and places the gun on the table and sighs. He didn’t expect to fire that many.
He brings the new bottle to his lips and takes a long drink. The sounds of the city continue outside – cars honking at each other, people walking, dogs barking. The fact that it’s two in the morning doesn’t seem to phase them. Luke knocks back the last of his beer and stands up, grabbing the G17. He stumbles through the hallway towards the living room, leaning on the wall for support. Outside, the amount of cars passing by has decreased, and less people are being illuminated by their cell phone screens. He coughs and then passes the window, tripping on a pair of shoes. He laughs at himself as he lies on the ground and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one up. He takes a long drag and tightens his grip on the Glock. The Glock that was five bullets lighter than it was this morning.
Luke pushes himself up, still clutching the G17 in his hand. He steps into the bathroom and examines himself – the white shirt with red-brown stains splattered on it, the scraggly beard lining his face, the cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He takes another long drag off of it, inhaling deeply. He sighs again, bringing the Glock up. The cold metal shocks his skin.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” He mutters, the walls the only things that hear him. “Fuck, Sam, Charlotte, I’m so sorry…”
Bang. Six.
