Please Don't Cry, You Liar

He's caressing the barrel  of his gun. There's a hand on his shoulder, over his own hand, a voice in his ear, pleading, begging.

"No, don't do this, it's okay. I'll wait for you, you don't have to come to me."

He laughs, hysterically, and there's tears burning in his eyes, his cheeks, his chin, his chest. He clutches the gun tighter to him, fingers shaking, chest heaving.

"I miss you, never thought I'd-" he hiccups, "never thought I'd end it this way."

"You don't have to, you can stop this."

 "No, I can't."

"Please."

"You're dead, it doesn't matter."

There's the press of cool metal against his tongue, clacking against his teeth.

A flex of finger.

A noise, a bright light, a bang.

When he turns around, that person is there.