It was 11:58 pm on a Thursday evening and how else would I know this? Because I was programmed to recollect these thoughts. You can't forget the littlest of things.
Anyway, it was a mess of twilight, the atmosphere thick with drinks that didn't mix and a variety of lit sticks that killed you in minutes. I was sitting against the brick wall of the bar, my back becoming the only thing I depend on, and she had the gun to my temple. My hand wrapped around hers to keep the gun steady. We both knew we were trembling against each other, but I was a collapsing building, and she was holding me up.
"You're not dying on me. You're not leaving me! You're not doing this." Her words were slurred with tears, her eyes swelling deeply and for some reason, my sympathy did not lie with her.
"Can't you see I have nothing anymore! I said pull the goddamn trigger." My voice arising, then softening staring straight ahead, yet the corner of my eye sliced through her soul. Her blond crinkled hair swept to the side, her make up all dolled up. I didn't deserve her. She didn't even deserve me. Everything was my fault then.
"I'm not doing this. " She sighed, her words trembling, daring to take a step towards me. I swear her lips were like candy canes, her breath so crisp in the atmosphere, or I was just drunk... Again.
I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut, scrambling to cock the gun, feeling the pulse in my brain as the butt of the gun was pressed deeply in my head from my own force.
"Fire it. Or I'll do it myself." I stated coldly. I was scared. Not scared of dying, scared I'll never make it in hell.
"I love you." She cried, now choking on her sobs. I could never stand it when she cried. I couldn't take it. Now my heart hurts. Come on. Come on.
"I love you." I repeated, my jaw setting. Yet I remembered months ago I promised I loved her. Now, I don't feel it.
"Let me lower the gun." She murmured slowly, and I didn't move. I didn't say a single word as the gun was removed from my head, and she stepped in front of me and pressed those candy cane-like lips to mine, the gun in her opposite hand. I wanted to resist; say no no no over and over again, but the words stuck in my chest.
My hand traced the outline of her hip, finding the trigger, distracting myself. I cocked the gun, the sound so subtle she hardly noticed.
My lips became limp against hers.
I missed.
