Revolver.....

He's sitting in his cheap motel room. Rough linen sheets freshly cleaned from the fornication and drugs that ran rampant just the night prior. His rough facial hair blankets his withered skin. A tear falls from his withering eyes bearing the look of a sailor who has spent too long gazing at the sea. In his hand he clutches his bottle of jack, his last remaining friend at his side. With every drink he gains the confidence back that was lost so long ago. His feet sit on the moldy carpet facing away from the curtained window. Outside the world doesn't matter only sounds coming from the chorus of the parking lot. Family men and pedofiles alike living in harmony. In his lap lays his key. It sits hungerly missing 5 of the 6 components to make it full. One acrobat lays in it's round bed. Spinning from the calloused man's fingers. Over and over it spins till it finally stops like a wheel of unpleasant fortune. In his other hand he clutches her last photograph. She was as beautiful as the day they met. Before the war. His whole life he did as he was told. obeyed his father, obeyed the laws obeyed, his country. Yet this would be his decision. His terms. Complete control. The dance continues. Piroutting until the graceful dancer stops. He raises it to his head, pulls. The click breaks the silence. The eruption afterward is deafening. He falls back onto the stiff mattress. Outside it begins to rain, he lays stiff unaware. He has a slight smirk on his face and his eyes are open. They see something that couldn't be taught or spoon fed into unsuspecting children in sunday school. His blue eyes stare at the white of the seeing below and he learns something that his life wasn't a waste. Something beyond the hardened exterior lies a gift so fragile that the hand of death has given him. Comfort.