The gun gleamed with evil,

As the man picked it up.

He placed a bullet within the barrel,

And spun it once.

He looked around at his wretched surroundings

And shed a single tear.

Before he placed the gun to his temple.

He counted down, slowly and eerily,

Until he reached the last number.

He squeezed his eyes shut,

With a numb finger,

He pulled the trigger.

Instead of his lifeless body toppling to the ground,

And a loud shot.

He realized that he was not holding a gun.

But merely his own finger.