Stains on the bedsheets and a crumpled photo of an older woman. Damon’s aunt still gave him such a huge rise, but the moral crash afterwards was always murder. Sitting on the edge of his bed completely naked he felt disgusted at himself. Nothing new here.
Fuck, I hate this. The thought would often come unbidden after he had worn himself out in the evening. It was his daily routine, so to speak: the loneliness, the lust, the shame, then the loneliness mixed with the self-loathing. Without uttering a single word, he reached out and opened a drawer on the nightstand next to his bed from where he pulled out a .38 cal revolver. Damon placed the gun under his chin and without hesitating pulled the trigger.
Empty. He pushed out the revolver’s drum and saw the chamber adjacent to the gun’s cannon holding the only loaded bullet. Not today again, it seems. Figures. Damon grabbed the drum with his hand and gave it a spin before slamming it back in place. Russian Roulette rules: he wouldn’t see his death coming. He had at least that much excitement going on for him.