Is It Just Enough for You to Breathe?

The metal of the gun was cold against my sweating palms. I contemplated the gun, wondering whether it would be worth it to just off myself right now. I have nothing left to live for; everyone I care about is either dead, dying, or deserting me. If I die, I wonder how many people will actually care, how many people would actually shed tears about me.

I got off my bed, now positive on what had to be done. If I’m gone, everyone will be happier.

I placed the suicide note I wrote about a week ago on my night stand. I stood in the middle of the room, looking at the gun again, wondering why I’m the one with the gun in my hand. Why did all of this have to happen to me?

I heard a knock, and before I could tell them to stay out, the door knob turned and the door flew open, revealing my brother and his horrified face.

I stare into my brother’s eyes, leaking with tears and full of fear. Fear for my life. I press the barrel to my own temple, tears also falling out of my eyes, though they were tears of joy, joy that this hell would be over soon.

“CHRISTOFER!” I hear him scream, stepping closer to me.

“Don’t move, or I’ll pull this trigger.” I said, voice dark and threatening. “I’m leaving this place, there’s nothing left for me here.”

“What the fuck are you saying? There is so much for you here! You have mom, you have me, you have your friends, think about how we’d all feel if I didn’t find you before you pulled that trigger.”

“Friends? What friends do I have? They’ve all ditched me ever since Lexi died in that car accident. And mom? Don’t make me laugh, she’s never around for either of us. Even you’re barely there half the time. I’ve just been...forgotten.” I said, not wanting to talk about this anymore. I just wanted to die, to get this over with. To end this.

“Is it not enough to just have me?” He asked weakly, sounding completely helpless.

And he was. “Whatever you say to me isn’t going to change my actions.”

He took another step into the room.

I cocked the gun, giving him a dead stare. He jumped at the sound, more tears falling down his cheeks.

“Please, I’m begging, don’t do this.” He pleaded, his knees looking like they were about to give out from beneath him.

“Stop wasting your breath on a hopeless attempt.” I spat, getting ready to squeeze the trigger, ready for the bullet to shoot into my head and take my life from me.

“Where you go, I will follow, Christofer.” He threatened.

I wanted to argue, tell him that he can’t do that, that he has a purpose to live, but I was tired of talking. I needed this.

I squeezed my eyes closed, tightening my grip on the handle and trigger. “I’m sick of this life of pain.”

“Christofer! Please don’t pull the–”

The gunshot sounded before I could finish my sentence. Blood splattered on the walls and pooled on the carpet as Christofer fell to the ground with his gun in his hand.

My knees finally gave way and I fell next to his still body, still warm from the life that was once inside him.

I sobbed on his chest, pounding on it with my fist in frustration and sadness. No one else was home, and mom won’t answer her phone, she never does for me, and never did for Christofer.

I felt his skin getting colder by the second, which made me sob harder.

I kept repeating to myself, in whispers and screams, “Why was he the man? Why was he the man?”