A Suicider's Reflection

Today, I killed myself.

I purchased a .32 revolver from a friend. He said he didn't even use it, anymore. I got it for a cheap $25. Then, I bought a full round of ammunition, in case I missed. 6 bullets. The next day, after work, I went to an undisclosed location. There is a vast country land near my residence. It would be easy to go out there and find an abandoned silo, or better yet, an abandoned barn. So, I left, at 5:23, to begin my departure.

I arrived at the barn, 73 miles from where I lived, at the sun's setting. An intense brightness was cast over the barn. Inside, there were spots to where it was so bright, you couldn't even look at them. Others, a dark bleakness, with a soft glow around the edges of the object making the shadow. I made my way up to the upper part of the barn, via a ladder. Then I sat perched, on the edge of the window, looking out at the sun. As it set, I loaded the weapon. For a moment, questioned my next action. And then..... the end.

As I lay back on the upper part of this abandoned barn, with a huge hole in my head, dead, I thought of all the things I would miss. All the things I would never again do. Such a plethora of experiences that I would never have.

Better yet, would anyone miss me? Sure, my co-workers, but just because they don't want to look like the shallow, cold empty pricks that they really are. They feign sadness, in the wake of this "tragedy". My family? I haven't openly gave a shit about them, in a very long time. Friends? Most were just common interested people, but I never really swayed their minds. I merely gave them another person that they can call "friend". Someone they can bug with their inane drivel, or can lose a few hours discussing previously mentioned common interest. But, nothing more than that. And besides, they would hear nothing of my plight. They have their own problems, I understand.

So that would conclude the list. How long would it take anyone to know I'm missing? What would they think? Maybe I ran away? Away from any windows, on a backdirt road, fifty miles from anywhere remotely significant, I would rot and decompose. Someone would find my car, find the owner and then, they would know. My funeral? Probably wouldn't be one. Cremate my remains, that what they would do.

As I lie, these thoughts faded to nothing. Because I am nothing. Not anymore.

Not anymore.