Title: None in the Chamber Status: Complete Characters: Anon, Fang, Ripley Rating: SFW Classification: One-Shot Author: KarmaChickenBaby Summary: Fang runs out of bullets before Anon reaches her on the roof. Drastic events follow. I open the door. The cold morning wind rushes inside, momentarily blowing away the overwhelming stench of blood. She stands there, on the far end of the rooftop, gun in hand, slowly heaving. She did not hear me open the door, it seems, too preoccupied with watching the commotion below. That and the wind, combined with the sirens screaming below make for loud enough cover for me to approach. I come closer, closer, and closer. Finally, I reach out. My hand brushes her arm. She spins in place, and with her face contorted into a rigid mask of hatred, she pulls the trigger a couple times. Click, click, click. She looks at the gun in surprise. Then, she looks at me and gasps, taking a step back. “A-Anon?” her voice trembles, from exhaustion, surprise and shock. “W-what are you doing here?” She doesn’t wait for my answer though. Not that I had any to give. It's a bit too late for apologies. The next few seconds are a blur. The gun falls to the ground, clearly spent on ammo. She turns and with a cry of anguish, she leaps towards the edge. Without thinking, I rush forward, and, just as she sets her foot on the precipice, I grip her hand. I pull her back. She shrieks as I yank her back, back away from the edge of the rooftop. Away from the plunge. You will not die today, sweet tooth. I will not allow it. As I pull her down to the ground, she tosses her vacant arm up. I grunt as I hit the floor. She hisses in my face, eyes wide open, wild, filled with killing intent. As she snaps her beak at me in a cacophony of shrieks and screeching, I can see, out of the corner of my eyes, her free hand. Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Her talons are at their full length. Just like back at my place that night. I close my eyes and wrap my arms tightly around her, pulling her close. I can hear her clawing at the concrete, the sounds of scraping closer and closer. Fuck it, I’m a worthless piece of shit anyway. As long as I can keep her away from the edge for long enough… I tense up in anticipation of pain. But the pain never comes. The scraping stops. Over the sirens, I can hear her panicked breathing. I slowly open my eyes and look up at her. She's trembling, fuck, she's shaking as if in a fever. She goggles at me, her eyes wide open, her pupils shrinking and dilating at random intervals. "Fang-" I grunt when she clings to me. She starts weeping, screaming, bawling, all at the same time. She pushes her face against my chest, her tears soaking my shirt. Between the choked back sobs, I can distinguish two words, repeated in a litany of near-incomprehensible mumbling. "They're dead... They're dead... They're dead..." I don't say anything. What should I say? What could I say? The cavalry arrives shortly after, surprisingly without her father leading the charge. It takes a lot of effort on their part to separate us. She screams and starts lashing out the moment they start prying her away from me, but surprisingly, they don't retaliate. Perks of being a cop's daughter I guess. She's gone. I am left alone on the roof with a cop and a paramedic. The first puts the gun into the evidence bag, the other checks me for injuries. There are none, besides some bruises from when me and Fang fell down. "You're a hero." I blink and turn my eyes away from the rooftop door, snapped out of the stupor. A hero? Fuck, if you only knew… I only shake my head and sigh, doing my goddamn best not to let my voice tremble. "You stopped a mass shooter." The dark blue dino continues, dressing up my bruises. I only shake my head again, running my hand across my face. Departure I sit with the duffle bag across my lap, watching the news on one of the TV's they have in the airport. They're showing snippets from Fang's trial. She looks so dejected and beaten, sitting in the courtroom with her face in her hands. She's shaking. The footage is silent, but the tears trickling from between her fingers tell me everything I need to know. The footage cuts off, replaced by a pair of dino news anchors at the DNN studio. The strip at the bottom of the screen reads: Mass shooter finally sentenced. The news lady speaks up: "The perpetrator of the Volcano High Massacre, Lucy Aaron, aged twenty, has been sentenced to life imprisonment today, following a case that shook the nation. " It shook the nation indeed. This shit's been all over the news for the better part of the year. Of course, I testified, with Fang's old man overseeing the proceedings personally. I pinch the bridge of my nose, close my eyes and tremble. I will never forget that fucker's eyes, drilling into my face with the force of a thousand suns. He asked me about everything. About me. About Fang. How we met and ended up together. Where it all lead to. He wrung me out like a wet rag. And he enjoyed every second of it, damn bastard. "The mysterious hero who stopped the killing spree six months ago refused to comment on the trial, citing privacy reasons." I'd go postal myself if someone tried to pry me about this shit more than they already did. Fang's old man tried to keep my identity secret, but somehow it got out to the press. I've been dodging them all this time, biding my time until bootcamp. I run my hand across my face, watching Fang listen to her sentence. The look of confusion and disbelief on her teary face almost makes me recoil in self-disgust. It's your fault. - a tiny voice in the back of my head scoffs at me. - It's your near-sighted, selfish ass that should be in that chair, facing the music. Fuck, why didn't I grab the gun when the cops came? No one would know the truth! They'd take me out, and… And what, fucking idiot? - the tiny voice scoffs at me. Forgot about the securit y footage already? I clench my hand into a fist and smack my knee. I've seen it over and over in the news, on YouSnoot, everywhere. Not even image boards were safe from it. One post comes to mind: >be schizo bitch >wake up one day >go to school >itshighnoon.jpg >picrel There was a still frame of Fang gunning down students in the gymnasium attached to that post. So many bodies… and the blood… fuck, fuck, fuck! You'd die for nothing . - the voice mocks me. - Another victim in the school shooting. They would probably add you to her kill streak. "Anon, come on." I feel someone tapping my shoulder. I twitch. A large gray ankylosaurus is looking down at me with concern. I nod, sigh, toss one last look at Fang's teary face on the TV screen and get up. I hesitate. There's a sort of doubt sprouting in my mind. A feeling that I'm making a big mistake, leaving her alone with this mess. That she needs me. And that I shouldn't go. This feeling passes. Very quickly. It doesn't last longer than a heartbeat or two. What help could I be to her right now? She doesn't need my sorry ass. She has Trish and Reed. With a heavy sigh and even heavier heart, I trudge out with the other recruits. Reunion Volcaldera Bluffs Penitentiary. I didn't even know they had a prison here. It's not far from Skin Row, probably by design. Saves money on fuel I guess. It's been three years since that day. They forced me to go on leave, something about "combat fatigue". Maybe there's some truth in that. I've been in the desert ever since graduation, dodging bullets and cheating death, day and night, non stop. I scowl, passing my hand across my face. An elderly triceratops lady walking by gives me a sidelong look. I ignore her. She doesn't know shit. Well, no point in delaying the inevitable. Fang probably already knows I'm coming. My mind starts racing as soon as I enter. Security check, rules of visitation, don't bring any weapons in, don't attack the guards yada yada yada. I'm blind and deaf to whatever they're telling me, too preoccupied with what I would say to Fang once I see her. Mechanically, like a badly oiled machine, I follow a guard down a long, brightly lit cement corridor. I open the door and enter. The room is small, divided in half by a wall with a thick window. There is a counter under the window, upon which sits a black, plastic phone receiver. I sit by the counter and grab my knees, trying my best to keep them from shaking. The door on the other side opens. I hold back a gasp and force my hand to stay away from my mouth. Don't want to make a scene. She changed. Very much so. She's wearing a bright orange prison uniform. Her hair is short, very short. Not exactly a buzz cut, but it doesn't reach past her temples. The tip of her beak is slightly crooked, while its length is marred by scars of many fist fights. On her right wrist, there's a tattoo of a clock with no hands. She freezes the moment she sees me. From how quickly her expression changes from surprise to burning hatred, I can tell that she was expecting someone else. Trish, probably. She turns and talks to the guard. I can't discern words, but judging from the volume and tone of her voice, she's pissed off. The guard shrugs and nods at the chair on their half of the room. Fang throws her hands up with a hiss that even I can hear, but which makes no impression on the guard. The stego repeats the nod, putting her hand on the nightstick at her belt. Fang backs off with a look that spells murder. Finally, she turns to me, takes a deep, slow breath and trudges up to the chair. It rumbles loudly as she yanks it back and creaks when she slams herself down into the seat. She then leans forward, resting her elbow on the counter, and her beak in the palm of her hand. This allows me to take a good look at that clock tattoo. The glass on its face is cracked. I see another tattoo, one I hadn't noticed before: EWMN, tattooed on her knuckles. She's staring at me. There's fire in those beautiful eyes of hers. Angry, hateful fire. We stare at each other for what feels like eternity, before she finally reaches out and picks up the receiver on her end. I slowly, hesitantly do the same. Don't tremble, don't tremble, don't fucking tremble for god's sake! It's just a conversation. You survived airstrikes, you can do this. "Hey there, baldie." She says, feigning disinterest. Her voice had changed too. There's a bit of raggedness to it, a hint of raspiness. But the worst thing is the tone. It's cold. Ice cold. Vacuum-of-the-fucking-space cold. I swallow and compose myself. This can't be worse than that bus hostage situation. "Hey, Fang." Her scowl grows the moment she hears my voice. She tenses up, looks away from me and the guard, then back at me. She mutters under her breath, rubbing her temple with her thumb. "If you ask me how I'm doing, I will fucking strangle you." She grips the phone cord to emphasize her point. "Who let you in here?" "I asked your father to let me see you." She sneers, with a bit of a hiss. I swallow slowly, my heart starting to pound against my chest. Fucking hell, why is she staring at me like that? "Why?" She asks, her voice trembling slightly. I don't think she's on the verge of tears. "Huh?" I blink, surprised by her question. She stiffens, her whole body tensing up in a deep, slow exhale. "Why did you do that?" She asks, a bit more calmly than moments ago. "Why did I come…" She smacks the countertop with her palm, cutting me off. She leans closer, the tip of her scarred snout almost touching the cold glass. "Why did you save…" her voice falters for a single moment. "...save me?" My chest tightens. What should I say? What the fuck do I say? Fuck, should I just be honest? "I saved you because I lov-" Her hiss, loud, filled with anger, hatred and malice cuts me off. It takes a fuckton of self control for me not to scramble backwards. For a short moment, Fang stares at me, her pupils contracted into twin dots, her whole body tensed up and rigid. Then, suddenly, she relaxes and bursts into a bitter, shaky laughter. You know, a laugh you have when you're actually so fucking pissed off that you don't actually feel anything? Yeah. That kind. "Love me?" she grips the phone. I can almost hear the plastic crack. Or are those her knuckles popping? "LOVE ME? You..." for a moment she's at a loss for words, only working her beak, trying to fight the rage choking her back. "You bald, ape faced, sleazy piece of shit, you never fucking loved me!" She raises her voice, stabbing an accusatory finger at the glass. "I was nothing to you! A toy for you to throw away after you’re done with it." She pauses, swallowing hard. "I-" She slams her fist down onto the table, the sound making me jump and shut my mouth. "Shut. Up." she says with the hiss I oh so well remember from that night. "For once in your life, shut the fuck up and let someone else speak." she pauses, working her beak again, mumbling incomprehensibly as she thinks what to say next. "You say that you love me, and yet, every single fucking time I tried to open my heart to you, you pushed me away!" I sit in silence. Unable to move. Unable to say anything. Fuck, why won't my legs stop shaking? "Only after I FUCKED YOU." she hisses. "Only then it dawned on you that I'm an actual fucking person, living, breathing, feeling person. Why the fuck did you come to school that day?” she glowers at me. “To save the only girl who ever put out to you?" I work my mouth, trying to find the right words, any word, any sort of answer, no matter how unsatisfactory it may be. But I find nothing. I only sit there, staring at her like a fucking idiot She sneers, shaking her head. "What did you expect when you came here? That I will cry my eyes out, thanking you for kindly remembering that I exist?" she pauses for a long moment, breathing through clenched teeth. "Fuck. You." "Fang, I-" She hisses like a viper and then… BANG! I jump back, gasping. The receiver is laying upright on the counter. The glass is cracked. Behind it, I see Fang on her feet, her wings spread wide, with her claws at their full length. The chair is laying on its back. The guard makes a move towards her, the nightstick already out. “Alright, Aaron, that’s enough…” “Wait!” I yell. The guard stops. She looks at me, then at Fang, then back at me. She slowly shakes her head and retreats back to her post. "Ten minutes!" She calls out. Even in defeat, the nightstick stays out. She eyes Fang with a great deal of caution, not taking her eyes off her as the other picks up the chair and roughly pushes it towards the counter. “What the fuck are you doing here anyway, huh?” Fang hisses into the handset, making my skin crawl. It sounds like a knife on stone. “Did you fuck up in the army so bad that they kicked you out already?” How the fuck does she?... Right, her old man. “I’m on leave. I wanted to see if you’re okay.” I answer, surprising myself with how calm my voice is. She slowly shakes her head, the scowl already overtaking her face again. She grips her face with her vacant hand, the letters of her knuckle tattoo squeezing together. “I will be spending the rest of my life in a maximum security prison, surrounded by rapists, murderers, gangbangers and mobsters.” she spreads her fingers to look at me and leans a bit closer. “Each day, I will have to be careful not to get beaten up, stabbed, raped or killed.” her voice is trembling slightly. She leans even closer, her grip on the receiver tightening. Oh yeah, the plastic is cracking now alright. Stop shaking you damn cretin! “Why the fuck ,” she almost spits the curse out, as if it was a piece of rotten food. “Do you think I’d be okay? I know that you’re a fucking dumbass, but even you have to admit.” the tip of her snout is pressed against the glass. “That this question is fucking retarded.” I only nod with a sense of overwhelming shame, my cheeks coloring. She snorts bitterly, relaxing a tiny bit. “You know,” she leans back in her chair, twining the cord around her finger. “For these four years, I thought a lot about that night back at your place. The prom night.” I swallow softly and nod, then take a deep, calm breath to calm my beating heart. She’s looking at me as if expecting me to say something, so I muster up the guts - fuck, why is this so difficult? I’ve been living in a god damn warzone for the past three years! - to speak: “Y-yeah?” She snorts and shakes her head with a soft snarl. “I should have… killed you back then, you know?” she lets go of the cord, spreads her hand and lets her talons slip out. “Maybe that way, I would only spend a couple years here.” she glares at me, eyes narrowed. “Not my whole fucking life.” I feel as if someone dunked me into a pool of liquid nitrogen. She's speaking so nonchalantly about this, so casually. As if she was pondering getting something to eat, not bloody murder. But, I barely even register her words, focusing instead on those claws. They are sharper, much sharper than I remember. They now look like claws of a predator. A lion, or a cougar. The light gleams on the edge of each of them, making them impossible to ignore. "You like 'em?" She drums on the countertop, the click they make causing me to shiver slightly. "They are very good for cutting." She flashes me a cold, mirthless smirk. "There was this bitch who's been giving me mad shit. Big, scary trike." She chuckles, still drumming on the countertop. Ra-tat-tat. Ra-tat-tat. Ra-tat-tat. I can't take my eyes off the claws dancing on the cheap plywood. Must be my ancestral blood, warning me of a predator. "She was almost as big as Spears, you know, that fucking caveman?" She sneers. "Good fucking principal he was. Anyway, that trike, yeah?" SWISH. I softly gasp, almost falling backwards in my chair. Fang, seeing my panic, bursts out into a cold laughter of amusement. This sounds… wrong. Has she really changed that much over only four years? "Well, let's just say that she got what she deserved." Fang leans forward, grinning. Only now I notice another tattoo. A tear at the corner of her eye. Even I know what this means - she fucking killed someone here. Fang, Fang, what happened to you? Oh god… "But, you know?" She leans back in her chair, putting one of her arms behind her head, and her boots on the counter. Shitty plywood creaks under her weight. "There was something you were good for in the end." I frown, unsure as to what she means. She smirks playfully, although the expression is marred by scars and the constant scowl she can't seem to get rid of. "You gave me something…" she looks at the ceiling. "Something I am thankful to you for," she turns her eyes to me. "Despite all the other shit you've done." "Which is?" I ask in a meek and soft tone. "Time's up!" The guard shouts. "It's a she." Fang laughs at my surprise. "Her name's Amber." She chucks the receiver back onto the counter. "And for her sake, I hope you die in that fucking desert!" She flips me off with a leer. I am stunned. I sit like a statue, watching Fang being escorted out. I stumble out of the chair, roused by the same guard who brought me here. My mind is blank. No thought, no emotions, no nothing. As if someone smacked me in the head with a hammer, bashing out everything. I remember nothing from the walk out or the way to the hotel. Everything blends together in a smear of images, all connected by a single comprehensible thought, rattling inside my mind in a whirlwind of confusion. Her name's Amber. Her name's Amber. Her name's Amber. Glorious shame My discharge came and went without much fanfare. I did earn some stripes since I've seen Fang last time, but I'd chalk that up to my suicidal tendencies, developed as a twisted attempt to conform to her wish. A patrol in a high risk area? Fuck yeah. Guarding stockpiles near the engagement zone? Sign me the fuck up. Clearing out fortified bunkers? Yep. Riding with convoys in enemy controlled areas? Yessir. I worked my way up the ladder, but never really noticed it. From a regular grunt to a corporal, from corporal to sergeant, all the way to first class. They'd make me a damn master if I didn't ask to be discharged. Fifteen years I've spent trying to get myself killed. They shipped me, from desert to a jungle, from a jungle to a savanna, I've seen it all. And all I had to show for it was a handful of medals and scars. Bullet wounds, knife scars, I lost half a foot on a landmine - got it replaced, and didn't even spend a dime, hoorah - a scar on the temple from a sniper round grazing me - almost lost my ear that day. But still, I was alive. And still, I thought of Fang. I tried to forget her. There were other women, humans and dinos. But it never lasted. It always fell apart. It was my fault most of the time. My shell shocked ass isn't exactly boyfriend material. I decided to visit Fang shortly after my discharge, after I settled down a little into the civvie life. Another selfish act to throw on the pile. No shortage of those in the life of mister Anon Y. Mous. I bet she will be thrilled to see me. Severance I turn off the engine and sit, watching the Volcaldera Penitentiary loom over the parking lot. Such a dreary fucking place. I never went there after I spoke to Fang eleven years ago. Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of self pity. I'm a master of wallowing in my own misery after all. I take my phone out of my pocket. Fifteen years later and I still have the same shitty smartphone I had back in school. This little bastard has seen more of the world than most people ever will and keeps on chugging along as if time stood still. He witnessed me cry, bleed, laugh and sleep. Bombs, bullets, water, nothing stopped him. They say that over time, pets become more and more like their masters. There may be some truth to that. I open my contacts and scroll down. I stop. FANG Her picture is smiling at me. I took it at the park, I think. My sweet, sweet girl. Why did it have to be me whom this world presented to you? I hesitate for a moment before pocketing the phone and exiting the car. I lock it and look over at the prison. I freeze. It's Fang's father. And her mother. And a young ptero girl, no more than fifteen years old. A bright red ribbon dances in her hair. I don't even have to guess who that is. Those two fossils were already too old to have children when I was in highschool. Her name's Amber. They are standing at the prison gates. A group visit? Didn't know you could do those. I don't even know when I start walking towards them. I don't get far: Ripley's head whips around as I get closer. His eyes zero on me. The look he gives me turns my legs to jelly and my mind to mush. Despite all the training and all that I've seen and did in the army, that motherfucker's stare will always be the scariest fucking thing. His approach just sort of happens. One moment he's talking to his wife, the next he's slamming me against the car I'm leaning on. Time did little to decrease his strength. And those claws still hurt like a bitch. "What the hell are you doing here?" He asks, his beak inches from my face. "I came to see Fang." I say, looking him in the eyes. He gives a low, slow, rumbling hiss, his face contorting into a rigid mask of contempt and anger. "You will not be seeing her. She's leaving the prison." He narrows his eyes when I open my mouth to speak. "She got a life sentence!..." I loudly whisper. "And I have friends in high places." He replies, skillfully masking his anger behind a cocky smile. "Me and Samantha will ensure that she has a future." He grips my shirt. "One without you." I scowl, which only makes his shit-eating grin wider. "How can you do this?" I ask. "Amber's my…" He lifts me off the ground with ease. There it is, that rumbling hiss again. He sounds like a child of a semi and a large cat. "She is Lucy's daughter. Not yours." He lets me go. I grunt when I hit the ground. I look up at him, and upon seeing that self-satisfied, smug grin, I feel my hairs stand on end. I reach under my jacket, where I holster my service revolver. "Kid, I wouldn't do that if I were you." He rumbles, kneeling over me. "Try me, pops." I mutter through clenched teeth. "You're forgetting who you're talking to." The grin never leaves his face. "The moment you point that gun at me, every single policeman and woman in this city will start hunting you down like an animal you are." I hesitate. Then, slowly, I let go and take my hand out of my pocket. "At least let me talk to Amber." He frowns. "And what would you tell her?" He growls. " Hey Amber, it's me, your father! It was me who made your mom kill all those people! " I grit my teeth and sit up. Then, I slowly stand up, creasing the wrinkles on my shirt. I will not face this fucker laying down. "You talk as if I put the fucking gun in her hand!" I point a finger at him. My remark and gesture does not impress him. He only shrugs, eyeing me with contempt. "You might as well have." He gets up "Wha-" I'm interrupted by his hand landing on my shoulder in the same spot. "You toyed with my daughter." He squeezes it. "You turned her into a monster. You made her kill her own goddamn brother." With each word, his grip grows tighter and tighter. "She did not kill all those kids." He leans in. "You did." I blink, shocked, surprised, indignant. I try to speak, but all I manage is a hoarse croak. I work my mouth, but the words do not come out. My throat is clenched, my legs weak, arms are heavy. "Get the hell out of here." Ripley turns me around. "You've done some good with your life." He shoves me. "Keep at it, and keep away from Lucy." It takes a shit ton of dexterity on my part not to fall flat on my face, but I manage. As I straighten myself up, I look over my shoulder. Ripley is standing there, arms crossed, staring me down with enough contempt and disgust to make me sick. "Go." He says. "If I ever see you near my daughter, you're a dead man." I turn my head away and walk. I get in my car and put my face in my hands. Was it really all my fault? Despair and Defiance The apartment is empty. Save for well, me and my meager belongings. I don't really need much, the army made me realize that. Just a fridge, a bed, a TV, a computer, and a few pieces of furniture. But even with all that, it's empty. It's just me here. Me and my thoughts. And the gun on the table. I've been thinking a lot for the past three months. About my life. About what happened to me, to Fang. I mused, often half-drunk, justifying - or at least, attempting to - everything that led up to this point. It wasn't my fault. I didn't pull the trigger. I didn't kill them. It was Fang's fault. It was Naomi's fault, hers and her fucking schemes. I didn't run away from her. I had to go. I was a good boyfriend. I wasn't a bad person. Fang needed help. Fang needed help. Fang needed help. This reflection... it always came up and made this meager train of thought crash and burn every single goddamn time. Every time I ended up a rambling mess, curled up in the sheets, face in the pillow. It was my fault. It may as well have been me who pulled the trigger. I killed them. It wasn't Fang's fault. It wasn't Naomi's fault, she and her schemes brought me and Fang together. I ran away from her. I didn't have to go. I wasn't a good boyfriend. I was a bad person. Fang needed help. Fang needed help. Fang needed help. I take my phone out and go to contacts. Just like I did for the past fifteen years, I scroll down to Fang's phone number and stare at it in silence for some time. I look over at the revolver, laying on the table, loaded and ready. I look back at the phone. I open our text messages. Ancient texts, dating all the way back to my highschool days. Minute bullshit, like asking for help with homework, plans to meet up and similar crap. I read through them carefully - a little ritual I developed to calm my nerves. I always did that before jumping into the grinder, so that I may have her words - even about such unimportant things - fresh in my memory when I stick my neck out. Do it for her , that kind of bullshit. One last read. And also... I sigh, shake my head at my naivety and start tapping away. It takes me some time to find the right words, even if no one will ever read them. I erase the text time after time, each time more and more frustrated. Why am I getting so worked up about this? I'm texting a dead fucking number. Who cares? Finally, after nearly an hour of writing and erasing, I finally manage to write something presentable. Fang, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for having caused you so much pain. I'm sorry for having abandoned you while you needed me the most, and turned a cold shoulder when you screamed to me for help. I'm sorry for being such a selfish prick who pushed you down this path. I'm sorry for being the one who made you go to such extremes to try and soothe your pain. I hope that you can find happiness, wherever it may lay. For all that it's worth, I love you. Anon I tap "send" and immediately turn off the screen. I don't want to see it. It feels better to pretend that it went through. That's it. End of the line. The last selfish act in a life that's been nothing but a chain of such. Anon Y Mous, the prick, the asshole, the absent father. They should put that on my tombstone. I set the phone down and pick up the gun. It's big, heavy, and a bit unwieldy. Nothing like I'm used to. Smith & Wesson 500. Loaded with a single hollow point bullet. I had a whole box of those custom made. It cost me a pretty penny, but the peace of mind is worth every sum. Even if I fuck up, if my hand slips or some shit, there's no chance I'll survive this. Yeah, it's an overkill, but I want to do at least one thing right in my life, even if it's the last thing I will ever do. So, how do I do this? Roof of the mouth? No, the barrel won't fit. I'll probably jam it sideways and shoot through my spinal cord. I'll end up a vegetable. Put the barrel to my temple maybe? No, my skull's as hard as a metal plate. I don't think even this mule will be able to crack it. Under the chin then. Perfect. A soft spot. Click, boom, lights out. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. The tip of the barrel is cold. And hauntingly wide. I can almost see it when I close my eyes, the gaping maw of oblivion. What the fuck am I thinking? Just pull the trigger and be done with it, you damn coward. I put my finger on the trigger and take another deep, calming breath. I close my eyes once more and with a soft exhale, I pull the trigger. Click. I blink. "Wha-" I blink again, take the gun from under my chin and check the cylinder. Maybe I flicked it? No, it cycled correctly. What the hell is going on? I pop out the cylinder, place the bullet back in the top chamber. I close it, put the gun under my chin again and, again, take a deep breath. Click. "What the- Come on!" I try again. And again. And again. Click. Click. Click. Click. With quaking hands, I shake the cartridge out of the chamber and check it under the light of the ceiling lamp. It's clear that the hammer hit the primer. There's a considerable dent in it. And still, it didn't fire. "It's a dud…" I mumble. "It's a dud… it's a dud, it's a dud, IT'S A DUD!" I throw the faulty bullet across the room with a wild scream. I can almost hear the laughter of fate, that cold, brutal, heartless bitch. I sit in silence, bent over the table, with my hands pressed to the sides of my head. I don't see, but can feel my face contorting into a myriad of grimaces. "Why is it a dud?" I whisper. "Why is it a dud?" I can't even fucking kill myself right. BZZZZZZZ OHJESUSONADANCINGPOLE- BZZZZZZZ I fall out of my chair, arms flailing wildly. The gun flies out of my hand, landing somewhere at the far end of the room. I pick myself up from the ground, and look at the source of the sound. It's my phone. Someone's calling me… someone's calling me! What could be the odds?!? Without thinking or looking, I accept the call. "You dickhead, if you'll kill yourself, I will find you in hell and kick your ass so hard that Satan himself will-" "It's a dud!" I cry out, deaf to whatever the caller has to say to me. "It's a dud, it's a dud, it's a motherfucking, sons-of-bitchin' dud!" I burst into a wild laughter, fall to the floor and scream into the phone. "A dud! A dud! A dud! Can you imagine, failing to kill yourself?!" "Calm down, you fucking dweeb!" Dweeb. Dweeb. Dweeb. Like a hard slap to the face, that one word snaps me out of hysteria. Spasms, crying, shaking, rolling around on the floor like a maniac - it all stops, immediately. I lay still, as still as a log of wood, stupefied with disbelief. "F-fang?" I mumble. "Fang, is that you?" "Who else, you fucking asshole?" She speaks in an angry, trembling whisper. "You send me a suicide note on our daughter's birthday and expect me to ignore it?" She growls, the worn out speaker struggling to transfer the sound. "You're an even bigger prick than I remember." I blink. It is Fang. Fang is calling my phone from a long dead number and is calling me an asshole while she's at it. This must be a dream. Or rather, a hallucination. Last ticks of a dying brain after it's been smeared across the ceiling. "This isn't happening. I shot myself and this is not happening." Fang hisses into the receiver. "Like hell it is!" She scoffs. "Where do you live? I'm coming over." "I'm dead, and you're just a-" "Shut the fuck up." She cuts me off. "Give me your goddamn address, or you'll be wishing that this bullet was good." I mumble out what she wants to know. Then, there is silence. It drags on for so long that I start to think that she hung up, but suddenly, she speaks up. "Don't move, don't think, don't fucking touch anything. I want you alive when I get there, got it?" I grumble something in response. Her voice goes quieter, she must've turned away from the phone. And she speaks with such… softness, such care and love, that I can't help but tear up. "Sorry, Amber, I'll need to bounce for a while, something came up at-" she hangs up. For how long was I laying there? I don't know. It may have been ten minutes. An hour. A whole fucking eternity for all I know. I kept replaying that moment of her motherly softness in my mind, over and over again. She changed, again. Yeah, she still was an angry, foul-mouthed, violent woman, but it seemed she had mellowed out somewhat. Must be Amber's influence. I repeat that name in my mind. Amber, Amber, Amber. Fang's daughter. My daughter. She did say Amber is ours, didn't she? That's a nice thought. I smile a weak smile. At the same moment, there’s banging on the door. "You better be alive in there, or I swear, I'm throwing you down the garbage chute!" I sit up immediately, startled by both the knocking and her words. Swallowing down the tears and wiping my face with the sleeve of my jacket, I stumble to my feet. After a walk that feels infinitely long, I make it to the door and, with a shaky hand, I turn the key and open it. Her eyes widen. With a soft gasp, she takes a step back. I was right, she did change. Gone is the tear tattoo. And the one on her knuckles. The clock earned hands - they point to one and five. She's wearing a tight white tank top and a pair of loose sweatpants. She let her hair grow back. Why she didn't dye it is beyond me - that hair is the most distinct thing about her. But what strikes me the most in her are the eyes. There is anger in them, yes, but not the kind I saw there last time. Not anger born out of hate, but out of concern and worry. There is also fire, still. Strong fire, very strong. But it's a calm, warming flame, not a raging inferno. "Fucking hell." She shakes her head, taking my pitiful self in. "You're a mess, huh?" Maybe fate isn’t such a cold, brutal, heartless bitch after all.