My Sanctuary

The bullet felt cool and harmless in Mark's palm. He turned it over and over, and the metal soon grew warm. Without thinking and hesitation, Mark slid the bullet into the chamber. He spun the barrel and it spun around in circles. He flipped the revolver sharply to the right, and the barrel swung into its respective place. Reaching up with his thumb, he clicked back the hammer. Looking at the other man, Mark raised the revolver to his head. Without blinking, he squeezed the trigger, and the ever peaceful 'click' rung through his head. He smiled, and held out the revolver to the man. He was a white man, maybe in his late twenties, early thirties, quite the young age to risk his life for money. He was clean shaven, and wore a brilliant white polo shirt-a high possibility that the pureness of the shirt would be ruined, and never to be washed. His eyes darted around the room, in an ever nervous way. Mark could tell he didn't want to be there. Mark just smiled and said the incriminating words "Do it." That was enough to push the man to spin the barrel, click back the hammer, and point the gun at his own head.

    

Mark noticed something interesting about the man, besides the fact that he had the balls to try and best him at his favorite game. He noticed that the man's lower lip trembled a little bit every time Mark's head wasn't destroyed by the bullet. The man had a golden band on his left hand, signifying that he was married. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, even before he started playing. Mark held out his hand, lowering the gun.

    

"What's your story?" He asked the man. Mark knew that he didn't belong here, in a dark basement of the bar, where a countless amount of blood was spilt on the walls and floor. "A man just doesn't do this unless he's sure of himself."

    

"W-well…" The man started to say. "I-I was fired a few weeks ago… then the week after that, my parents died in a car crash. A month later my family had no money to pay for the bills, s-so my wife left with my daughter." Tears started to spill down his cheek, and run off of the revolver. "I couldn't handle it anymore, so… I… I…" He squeezed the trigger, and the 'click' sounded out again. He sighed in relief and passed the gun over. Mark held it up to his head and pulled, and the 'click' sounded again. He passed it back to the man.

    

"What's your name?" Mark asked him.

"C-Carl…" The man hesitantly replied. He pulled the trigger-nothing. Only the ever familiar click. Carl made a weird noise that came from deep in his throat-a kind of whimper mixed with a groan and passed the gun over. The crowd that gathered around them were starting to grow restless. They came and bet money to see someone die, yet none of them had their money yet. Mark took the gun and raised it to his head. "W-why do you do it?"

"What, this?" Mark referred to the gun. Carl nodded slowly. Mark smiled. "I'm married. I have children, a house, and a job. Everything you don't have. The only thing you have that I don't is peace. You're very peaceful for a man in your position, y'know that?" He continued smiling. "The only way I can find solace is in this…" He shook the gun in his hand. "This… is my sanctuary… my release." He squeezed the trigger, and for a split second it seemed like time had slowed. He saw the bright whiteness that was Carl's polo shirt. He noticed how vibrant all of the colors were in the room. He even noticed one of the tiniest fruit flies, buzzing around in front of the two. And the last he remembered was the last thing he said.

 

"My Sanctuary… My release…"

-Jon