Trigger Happy

Rain poured down from the heavy clouds onto the sullen over-congested streets of the city. The religious may have thought that the swarming masses below had earned the wrath of the heavens above. Perhaps they had sinned. Perhaps they had forsaken their God. Or, perhaps the water droplets fell heavy without giving a care about God or Man.

A dense, gray fog hovered above the streets, threatening to crowd out the bleak lights struggling to show the wandering people where to go. Porchlights, streetlights, stoplights. The masses hurried along, crowded under umbrellas, hustling into buses and cabs, anything to get out of the torrent.

A man called Doug paused outside of a worn building and listened to the wind beating against the loose glass of the windows. Hopefully they would hold.

Inside, though dry, offered little refuge from the bleakness of the streets. The aftermath of the previous morning was still evident. Glass shards were scattered across the floor; a vase was turned over by the window. The drafty room carried the faint scent of copper.

Doug sat down on the side of the couch not covered in still-drying blood. Whisky bottle in hand, he studied the room around him.

What a sight this must be, he thought to himself. A man sitting alone in the wreckage of his own self-destruction. Or attempt thereof.

Doug figured that if there was ever a time to believe in God, this would be it. He reckoned the hole in his head was still present. If not, he could always put it back. His eyes fell onto the gun laying to his right.

Perhaps a different location this time.

Passing the whisky to his other hand, he reached for the gun. Deja-vu swept over him as he felt the cold metal of press against his palm.

Maybe he should put some papers down, just in case he failed again. The couch was ruined enough as it is.

If it worked, however, that wouldn’t matter.

Doug laughed and pulled the trigger.

Laughter turned into screams. The screams subsided back into laughter as Doug continued to pull the trigger until the gun clicked.

As the room around him swam back into focus, Doug realized the ringing in his head was not actually in his head, but his doorbell.

He staggered over to the door, drink still in hand. On the other side was his neighbor, Martha.

"Would you cut that racket out? I'm trying to sleep."

Doug looked down at the spent gun.

"That's not going to get you out of here."

"What?"

"Just how many damn holes did you put in your head?"

Doug paused before holding up four fingers.

"Just my advice," Martha leaned in and took the gun. "Stick to drink. It's quieter and," she glanced at the burgundy stain on his couch, "less messy."

Doug looked past Martha into the congested city streets. He didn't remember moving to the city. "Where am I?"

"You're not talking to Jesus, sweetie."