• The abysmal desolation of my bleak mind actually began to scare me. I stared down the barrel of my gun. “Empty, good.” I cleaned it for another minute, and checked everything in my plan one more time. Suicide was a choice, right or wrong didn’t matter at this point. No one would stop me, nor would they remember me. I wanted to be forgotten it had almost become my dream. Masochism was quickly becoming my escape. Dangerous as this was, it felt good. And as depressing as it was, I couldn’t help but smile; it disturbed me to no end. I knew this insanely manic moment would end with me dead, and in the back of my mind it bothered me, to no apparent end. I knew somewhere in me it was wrong to do this. People care, right?
    We stared at each other for a long minute, the gun didn’t sweat, and I began to wonder. “Can I really do this?” I went to the phone. Dialed the only number I could remember. “Hello? Alexi?” The voice was thick with Russian heritage. “Hi I think I’m going through with it.” My mind was getting darker and darker, the sun was setting. “What? You’re getting married?” I took a second to look back; I had been dating a kind young woman about a month ago, kind until she found I didn’t have the wealth she thought I did. “No mom, I’m not, she’s gone.” “Alexi, it’s annoying when you call me that. “Don’t want to feel old?” “No.” “But you are like family to me.” “Do you remember Mike?” “Sorry… Ana.” “You were there for the last fight.” “I know, and I should’ve stayed with you.” Then there was a long silence. “You didn’t know.” “Please don’t justify it, it’s not right.” “You couldn’t have known.” But I knew.
    He was depressed, attending an anger-management class, along with rehab for past drug and alcohol addictions. We both knew he was a train wreck, he always had been. But she felt bad for him, especially after his pity story. It was well written he had revised it many a times, at parts he improvised; he had practiced this in private. This man was true Hollywood material. He was young, handsome, and ingeniously insane. He was the poster child for realistic abusers. He hit her and immediately apologized, and made excuses. “I was drunk,” or “I tripped.” It always ended with him begging her not to leave him. One night though, he actually did get drunk. He went her house, or rather ‘their’ house. He had moved in a week earlier, with no regard to her or anyone else for that matter. He walked into her bedroom, she was asleep. She was a heavy sleeper… was. He slipped into her bed, and did what he wanted with her, the sadistically lustful pig he was. She woke up but couldn’t escape his grasp; she couldn’t find the air to scream. After he was done he went to the living room and fell asleep on the couch. She ran into the bathroom after the ordeal, she cried and hurt the rest of the night. She still feels the pain of it. She didn’t sleep that night.
    Morning came, and he had sobered up a bit. He went to look for her, in her bedroom. He discovered the mess he had made, and began to remember parts of the night. He knocked on the bathroom door, and asked her if she was okay. She screamed at him to go away, to never come back, she told him she hated him. She regrets that, I wish she didn’t. He went to the kitchen full of guilt, and wrote his last letter. The last sentence bothered me to no end, and it sticks with me even to this day. “Don’t hate me, please.” It’s disgusting, the way he thinks he can make for his crimes with a simple letter. Well he found his rope, and he hung himself. She walked in right before he ran out of air. He gave her a smile and was gone. She recalls that moment clearly, still.
    “I know, his brother called you ‘mom’ right?” “Yeah. So what happened with that girl?” She had a voice one that could sing many a lullaby. “Said I didn’t care, and left.” I heard a sigh and a smile began to show on my face. I hadn’t realized how calm I was until just now. “She didn’t deserve you.” “And who does?” “No one, you’re just too perfect.” “You say that but don’t mean it.” Oh I do, but I don’t want to blow your ego up any bigger than it already is.” I could hear the coy smile through the receiver. We bother laughed, it was nice, laughing. It felt right, this moment, as it always had. “Tatiana, I love you.” “I love you too, Alexi.” We knew the words were those of a family, one that neither of us had, but both of us wanted. We had been friends for many years, since we were children in Russia. Then we we’re shipped to America, as it was the Promised Land to those living in the slums.
    Our parents saved up enough money to send us there, by sacrificing themselves. They starved themselves, we promised to make them proud, silently. When we arrived, we were moved into an orphanage, where we faced our own sorts of discrimination. Made fun of for our appearance, clothes, accents, anything they could make fun of, children can be the cruelest of them all. But we faced all those problems together, we went through school together, but I had trouble with the theology classes that were required by the school. I believe in philosophy and science, and at that time I didn’t want to hear other people’s beliefs, I just wanted my own. After failing the class for a year, I was held back, sent to summer school, also. So Tatiana graduated a year earlier than I, she helped me with my homework, and my class work, she taught me things, many things, things I could never have figured out on my own.
    After high school we moved out, and went to college, we chose different colleges because of our different interests. She wanted to be a successful business woman, make her parents proud, all that. I on the other hand, wanted to be an artist, at any cost. I shouldn’t have followed my dreams. I should’ve looked into business classes, maybe writing classes, I like poetry and writing. Even teaching classes would’ve been a good a idea. But I was so stupid, not to say I am not stupid now, but more so then.
    “Do you want to come over?” I tried to ask as calmly as possible. There was a pause on the other line. “My boyfriends coming over.” “Please? It’s actually kind of important.” “All right.” I took a silent breath, and tried again to act like everything was okay. “Thanks.” And a shy smile spread across my previously frowning face. “I don’t even see why you date him, especially if you don’t like having him around.” She had already hung up though. I looked back to the guest I had been so rudely ignoring. The gun laid on the coffee table, a patient yet inconsiderate guest. It stared at me, and I stared back.
    This little competition would go nowhere, guns don’t blink. I stepped back and looked out the window, still dark, as it would be for many more hours. I sighed; this was going to be a long night. I thought about making coffee, remembering that I had none I gave that idea up.
    The knock I had been waiting for came. I hurried to the door and opened it to see her wavy brown hair. She smiled, it was cute, her smile and her hair, a combination unmatched by even the most serene of angels. Her eyes pierced mine, with fear. A beautiful hazel mix, set upon a slightly pale delicate skin tone. She was a dream come true, if only I was into her like that. I smiled at her, and showed her in. “So what was so important?” I snapped out of my ethereal trance, quick enough to answer inconspicuously. “I thought you just wanted to see me.” “Har har, seriously what’s going on?”
    “My suicidal hate is blitzkreiging my psyche.” She smiled. “I love your profound vocabulary; it sounds like you still read the dictionary every night.” "You know it." And I walked her to the kitchen.
    We stared at the gun. It stared back. “This is what you meant?” “It’s empty, but yes.” She turned and smacked me, I didn’t react, it hurt, I think. It didn’t matter. “Why do you choose to throw everything away?” “‘God is dead.’“ “What?” “‘What are these churches now if they are not the tombs and sepulchers’ of God?’” Anger began to flood into me. “We have killed God. Taken everything righteous and holy out of this world. So I ask you, are we not demons? Do we not deserve death? I especially, for my sinful lifestyle. What would my death signify? To anyone? Sadness? Depression? Love? Happiness? Mania? What I ask you?!” I stared at the gun in my suicidal rage, it was pitiful, this rant, these feelings, it was a waste. It would all be over soon though.
    “That gun over there signifies nothing, the bullets nothing also. Nothing shooting nothing into nothing. I am not trying to get a message out or show something. All I want is death, my own.” Her eyes were overflowing with emotions, it was cute, she cared. I on the other hand didn’t. “This suicidal rant will mean nothing. My life is insignificant. My death will be the same. This gun will shoot the bullet to end my life. The end, roll the credits.” She closed her eyes and sighed, she was a strong woman, but her defenses eventually broke. “Alexi, your life matters, to me. Don’t I count?” “Of course you do. But I can’t live completely off a lone cheerleader.” “And why not? Haven’t I always helped you through things? Didn’t I always show you the way, in your darkest hours?” “True…” “Then why are you shutting me out?” “I’m sorry this isn’t one of those bullshit made for TV movies.” “I never sad it was, Alexi, like I said before, I love you, and I will as long as our friendship lasts.” “I love you too, but…” “What?” “My heart aches for something more.” “Such as?”
    Romance, because after all I was a hopeless romantic. Suicide was romantic and artistic, in a way. A gun, a bullet, my hand, and my head, these are my tools and canvas. “Romance.” “And this is how you’re going to get it?” I paused for a moment, not stunned so much as curiously searching for a poetic answer. “No, not really, this is my cry for attention, my trap to drag someone in.” “It doesn’t make me love you, it makes me pity you.” “Pity can become love.” “That is not love and you know it.” We stared each other down, I let my defenses fall now, but only for a second, she was quick to notice and strike. “How many ‘relationships have you been in where your partner only stayed with you out of pity.” “Sh-shut up.” “Answer me and I will.” The floor grabbed me, and dragged me slowly into it, I couldn’t move. My eyes were slowly drowning in the forming tears. “You already know.” “I want to hear it from you.” “…All of them.” “Then why not change your approach?” I didn’t answer. “Would it be too much work?” I stayed quiet, still. “Well?” I sighed. “What should I do?” I finally uttered out. I slowly felt my ego shatter.
    We had moved to the couch and talked, for many hours, really bonding. It felt good. It was a memorable experience. “So why do you go out with that guy?” She sighed. “Job perks more than anything.” “Moving on up by getting on down?” “Shut up… that was a horribly stupid joke.” “I know, I’m just getting started.” The conversations went smoothly, lots of jokes, and hugs, and pokes. We watched the television, for a while, it was putting me to sleep. “This is boring, I hate twilight shows, it’s worse than the early morning stuff.” “Well what else is there to do?” A million thoughts came to mind, none of them seemed fair. But at this point I hated all her boyfriends. “Well you said you don’t like your boyfriend, right?” She looked at me questioningly, and answered with a nod. “Well…” “No.” “Why not?” She turned away, and sighed. “A simple kiss couldn’t kill.” “Romeo and Juliet?” “Play, fiction, didn’t actually happen.” She sighed and looked at me disapprovingly. I countered with the most innocent looking plea face I could muster. With a sigh she kissed my cheek. I stared at her slightly angry, but more disappointed. “Don’t look at me like that, you’re asking me to cheat, how is that even fair?” I paused before answering and stared, but I was thinking about this question. “I guess I just wanted to feel some sort of deeper connection to someone, and you’re close, and it would be easy, but… You make a good point, how am I going to use you, my closest friend?” I sighed, although what I had said was just what she wanted to hear, I knew they were true. “You’re a user and you need help.” Her voice was like the sweetest bullet, being shot through the glass I had been looking through; everything was different, because of that one sentence.
    “Maybe…” She looked at me, and sighed, once more. “Maybe? You we’re going to kill yourself, and now you’re trying to get into my pants, I think you need help, you’re all over the place.” I looked over at her for a second, then away. “What kind of help. I am not being put into an asylum.” “No not like that, just therapy and maybe a psychiatrist, pills will even you out.” “No.” I wanted to shout, I wanted to walk away, I wanted to scream, and I wanted to die. “I will not be on pills, and I will not talk to a therapist. I’m not crazy.” “What do you call suicide then?” I was silent, for a moment. I reached for the gun. “It’s the easy way, it’s a choice, and it’s romantic, to me at least.” “Romantic?! Death is not romantic! It’s a horrible thing that we all go through.” “It’s not puberty, we deal with loved one’s dieing, not our own. You deal with your eminent decease. It’s a leave of this world to some. To others a simple escape.” “What do you believe?” “It’s the end.” “You want it to be the end already?” “Of course, I’m done with all this bull… I just want to end it.” “What if I killed myself, what would you do?” “Kill myself too.” “Fine, you might as well have a reason right?” I stared at her as she reached for the gun and looked for my ammunition. “You won’t find it, I didn’t buy it yet.” She stared at me, with the slightest bit of annoyance. “Why, aren’t you serious about this?” “The only thing I’ve ever been serious about.” I stood up, and walked to my bedroom. I rummaged through the clothes, boxes, blankets and other such things. I finally opened a small box and pulled out two bullets.
    Back in the kitchen she studied the gun. “It’s a nice gun, huh?” She stared at me, her eyes filled with a mix of anger, sadness and fear. “Are you scared?” I was almost taunting her at this point. “No, of course I’m not scared.” I grabbed the gun from her, with a playful bit of force. “Well then, let’s do this.” She stared at me, she was about to cry, it was obvious. “You don’t have to do this.” I sighed, and looked at her, it was heart breaking. “I should be the one telling you that, you’re the one who’s ready to die.” I stared at her with a slight curious smile. “Just because I’m suicidal doesn’t mean you have to be too.” I hugged her, and let a tear fall from my cheek. “I’m crying for you, not me, I want you to live, to be happy to flourish in this world.” “But you can too.” “It’s too late for me, don’t you see, this is not a world for me. It’s a vengeful place, a place of everlasting violence, we kill to survive… This is not a place for a peaceful person.”
    “This is the world of killers and fighters. I just want to be free of that. I don’t want to fight and kill, and do horrible things to survive, I want to be free of that, and I want others to be free of it too. But it is the natural way of life. To live you must kill.” I stared at her with a horrible feeling in my gut, and tears streaming my face. My anger was sadness now, and I felt weaker now. Weaker than ever before, my defenses we’re gone; I was nothing but the shell of a man. And she grabbed me, and held on, whispering into my ear. “You can change the world with that dream, I will help you.”
    “I love you, Tatiana.” I whispered it into her ear, and smiled, still crying. “I love you, Alexi.” She replied and I felt her smile. This is what it means to be loved.