Mickey held the gun firm in his left hand, a pen loosely in his right. He paced furiously. The cigarette, nearly out, was stuck to his bottom lip. He spit the burning cigarette butt to the floor and stepped on it. His feet were bare. He went for his pack. It was his last cigarette. He lit it and put it to his mouth. The pile of books on the table didn’t stand a chance. They flew wildly across the room. The cigarette was the best he’d ever had.
The hotel room's plaid wallpaper ran with water stains. Mold was in every corner. It was a nonsmoking room. It came with three ash trays. There was no bathroom, just a crapper and a hose port above a drain. It was a decorated jail cell with more porn glued to the walls than in any wooden hooch in Afghanistan. The smell seemed toxic. Mickey wouldn’t even use the crapper.
Mickey sat down at the desk. He was frustrated, angry, depressed, drunk, and in tears. He pressed the barrel of the gun to his head. Weak, he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t time yet, there was still Tommy. He sat the pistol down next to a weathered journal. He tore out a piece. He wrote:
|By Slim45hady |
Found at http://slim45hady.deviantart.com/
This aint right, but it never was. Not any time since we came to Mexico. We never should’ve left Puerto Rico.
There’s a briefcase with 10 grand in the mattress. Flip it over you’ll find it. I’m sorry Sarah didn’t make it. I wish it’d been me instead. I love you little brother.
Mickey stood up. He paced a few more times. He tossed his cigarette into the half eaten bowl of cereal. The door began to open, Tommy stepped through. Mickey put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Click!
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