His index finger rests on the curved piece shiny metal.
Resembling a piece of surgical steel
chilled by the affects of a climate controlled morgue.

It’s cold to the touch
yet his finger sweats.
Not like the affect of condensation
on the outside of your drinking cup,
but from an anxiety of the action he intends to use it for.

His knuckles have gone white.
The blood in his hand has retreated past his wrist,
for fear of its departure as well.

His blood tries to delay this inevitable exit
by flowing away from His vital body parts
needed to carry out this unwarranted haste.

He becomes light headed and heavy handed.
But the grooves and ridges attached to the palm of
His hand act as an enabler.
“Thank you Smith and Wesson” he murmurs.

His thumb shakily invites the hammer
to an upright position.
But there will be no safe landing once
it has been told to descend.

With both eyes he stares down into the abyss.
A never-ending nothingness.
A funnel of black, a colorless void.

Time seems to slow down,
apprehensive with its ticking.
Trying to give enough of itself to
make right what’s really wrong.

Although he considers it to be
a cruel trick of extending the
worst moment of his life.

Like watching your favorite replay on Tivo,
it sickens him.

As he begins to choose favorably to
Times alternative though,
his doorbell rings…

…and his finger slips.

-JoeV-