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Brian couldn't do it anymore.

He was tired of living a lie. He was tired of feeling like a fraud. He was tired of hating himself.

He looked down at his right hand. At his dad's .45. At the box of open ammunition beside it.

They wouldn't miss him, his parents. They didn't even know him. It would be easier this way, without

him burdening them, disappointing them. Again and again disappointing them. Disappointing himself.

Brian closed his eyes, gathering courage.

Yes, it was better this way. The end of pain. The end of suffering. The end of false hope. The end.

So why was it so hard?

It shouldn't be so hard, if this was the solution. It had seemed so simple, so easy. Earlier.

Nobody would care. Nobody would grieve. Nobody would even notice.

Except one.


He would be so confused. So, so confused. He would have no idea why, because Brian knew he could never,

ever tell him. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

Danny. His best friend. His only friend. His worst enemy. The only one keeping him alive. The reason he

couldn't be anymore.

No. He couldn't do that to him. He could never know. But he couldn't do that to him. That's why it

was hard.

So he would wait. It wouldn't take long. It never did.

Danny would figure out that he wasn't worth his time, his attention, his effort. Then he, too, would

be gone.

It wouldn't take long.

It never did.

Brian re-locked his dad's gun cabinet and walked downstairs. Into the silent kitchen of the cold and

empty house.

The kitchen door flung open. A figure walked in. Shoulders slumped. Like someone about to deliver

their own eulogy.


Were those tears? Or just the rain?

"Brian. We need to talk. I have something to tell you."

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