A silver table sat in the middle of the room. It had been recently polished, but the light it reflected remained distorted. In a way, this appeared comical, as if the piece of furniture was attempting to be stubborn. It mocked anyone who looked at, just begging them to clean it once more, as if it would make the light appear clearer. Beneath the table was a floor of freshly painted concrete, treated with care by whoever owned it. On all four sides of the table were walls comprised of the same metal. Each one of these walls was free from any blemishes. Above the table, a metal ceiling covered everything, with a dull lighting panel set directly into its center. Every once in a while, this light would flicker briefly, as if the power moving towards it was suddenly diverted. Sitting upon the table was a Sig-Sauer P229 handgun.

It was an exclusive model. The handle was silver, and the barrel had holes drilled into it, to prevent the buildup of gas, and the explosion of sound that comes with it. If you fire off a Sig-Sauer P229 handgun in an enclosed room, you will never hear again. Coincidences can be nice. A man was staring at the Sig-Sauer P229 Handgun with the silver handle and holes drilled into its barrel.

This man was wearing blue jeans and a white button down shirt. This man was crying. This man had been in this room for nine hours. This man’s name was Timothy. His last name is not important, because is the only man inside this room, and you will not confuse him with any other Timothy. This is what Timothy was thinking at 2 o’clock on Saturday morning inside a room with no doors or windows:

I am going to die. I woke up here and I am going to die. Nine hours ago I woke up here and I am going to die. I was walking to work and nine hours ago I woke up here and I am going to die. I wonder if it hurts to die. I wonder if it hurts to die because I am going to die. I wonder if it hurts to die because I am going to die, and I am afraid. It’s easier to wonder things than be afraid. It’s easier to wonder things than be afraid. It’s easier to wonder things than be afraid. Maybe if I repeat something it will take my mind off my own mortality. Maybe if I repeat something it will take my mind off my own mortality. I am going to die, and my repetition trick didn’t work. I feel weak. But there is a gun in the room. Gun’s are strong. I am going to die. I am going to die anyway, so why don’t I just do it myself. It’s like those home building kits that your parents bought you when you were younger and your grandparents helped you make. Maybe it will be messier, and you could just buy one from the store, but you feel better about it in the end if you do it yourself. Maybe I’ll go to hell. If I’m honest with myself, I might anyway. I might anyway. No you’re not, don’t do it, or you’ll ruin your record. This will be the one F on all of your report cards. It will be the smudge on the window. You’re a good person. He’s lying to you, you’re going to burn. I was an accountant. Don’t do that. Do what? Use the word was. You’re only asserting the fact that you are going to die. I thought we established that. We did. I’m going to kill myself. You’re going to kill yourself. He’s going to himself. Why? Why? I’m bored.

Timothy gripped the Sig-Sauer P229 with a silver handle, and placed the barrel with holes drilled into it into his mouth, tilted slightly up, so that the metal brushed his gums. Then he pulled the trigger, opened the gun, and stared down at the empty cartridge.