The gift

"Why not?" he thought, pacing around his room. Memories raged through his mind, shattering the last vestiges of inner peace that had kept him alive. All that time, a dozen cursed months. Alcohol had stopped helping, the nervous flexing of his fingers only fueled despair. He tried to forget it. Parties here and there. Just to avoid being alone at night. He'd come home late enough to have the strength just to make his bed. "I've tried everything..."—the urge to explain to himself. He was exhausted. Now he lay there, staring dead ahead. Grechuta's voice came on the radio... only the days we don't know yet are important, those few moments are important, the ones we're waiting for... he smiled sadly. He had always considered this song a cure for all thoughts of the end, but now he felt nothing. Maybe he'd even like to cry, to release all his pain, all his longing, with a deep sob. He shrugged. In moments like these, a person is a terrible egotist, thinking only of themselves, unaware of how much suffering they can cause with a single step. Flaunting their misfortune, we don't see others, we don't want to see them, they're unimportant. Suffering from a lack of understanding, we don't want to understand others. A vicious cycle. He stood up and walked to the desk. In the drawer lay something that was supposed to free him from all his troubles. He reached out, touched the cold steel, almost caressed it. He adored the thing that was supposed to take away the most precious part of every human being. He fell into thought. A suicide is a damned brave coward. Fearing the future, they don't fear the unknown lurking beyond life's threshold. Somewhere a bullet rolled... He opened the next drawer. There it was. He clenched it in his fist and, holding it, began his trek around the room again. The gun remained on the desk. After a few minutes, he stopped. Standing at the other end of the room, he turned and stared blankly at the black steel. He felt like he'd had a few beers. He'd once thought the mere knowledge of a final escape route would be enough to endure any pain, so he'd bought a gun. Illegally, but that wasn't important; after all, the only person it would hurt was himself. One bullet, no more would be needed. He was going to use it now. He walked to the desk and, with trembling hands, took the gun. He was surprised; he hadn't thought he'd be afraid right before the abyss. He hadn't thought about it since yesterday; it had been brewing inside him for months, and now he felt fear. He loaded it. The clash of steel sent shivers through his entire body. "And yet I'm afraid. Yet, damn it, I'm afraid." Tears welled in his eyes, his hands almost gave out, he felt damp with sweat. Gripping the gun, he turned off the radio. After a moment's thought, he put on a record. Louder, a little more. Kinsky. Music of despair, that's how he always perceived it... The light of the body is the eye... he stood in the middle of the room. Through his tear-filled eyes, he could only see the blurred outlines of the furniture. His breathing was getting faster. Left,He slowly raised his gun. He felt the barrel gently graze the hair at his temple. He pressed it harder, squeezing his eyes shut. The roar of the music, the incredible pounding of his heart, made him feel the entire room spin. It seemed to him that every fiber of his being was trembling. With the final, furious chord blasted from the speakers, he collapsed onto the carpet. He lay curled up like a fetus in its mother's womb. Silence reigned. The gun lay in the corner. Suddenly, there was a roar; tears streamed from his eyes, unable to fall on the carpet, and his head pounded against the floor. After a moment, he calmed down. He slowly rose from the floor, searched for the gun, picked it up, and unloaded it. He went to the desk, put the gun in a drawer, and left the room. In the bathroom, he rinsed his face. After a moment of reflection, he stepped into the shower to wash away everything that had happened. He wished he could clear his mind in the same way. He dried himself, dressed, and left the house to seek his happiness. After all, he still had some time left. He gave it to himself.