A World Apart

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Two

Logan

Click.

The sound of an empty chamber blares out mockingly, but instead of disappointment at the failed attempt, relief is what floods through me. A strange, unforeseen reaction. Maybe if I had put thoughts behind the decision they would have told me not to do it, convinced me it's not what I really wanted. Except I don't want for anything anymore, so by default this must be what I desire. 

Gun still held beneath my chin, I pull the trigger again.

Click.

Only more relief. A perverse comfort that the world hasn't gone dark for good, that my brains aren't splattered across the walls. It's an unexpected contentment, one I don't fully understand. How many times have I failed in taking my own life and found only misery after the fact? What makes this time so different? 

Maybe I don't actually want to die. Maybe my resolve to help others is powerful enough after all to override a premature death. Enough to overrule any plans Fate had in store for me. Or could the empty gun merely be a hint, the universe's way of telling me my time has come, but only if it's spent in service of others. 

So where does that leave me? A void shell going through the motions until the time for some grand sacrifice arrives. Maybe that's the only way I'll be allowed to die, throwing myself to the infected, a meaty distraction to buy others a chance. No where near as quick or peaceful a resolution as this would have been. 

Even though I'm reprieved the gun was empty, that my time on Earth has been stalled, I still find myself desperate for the closure it would bring. I've been through the arduous process of grieving one too many times. I can't stand going through it again. So for good measure I lift the pistol to my chin and pull the trigger one last time.

Click.

My arm slumps at my side and the gun clatters on the floor. The sound forces a small gasp from a visitor to my would-be-grave. Maisie stands in the doorway of the office, wide eyes bouncing between me and the pistol. For awhile she just stands there, evaluating the scene before her, until eventually she crosses over and drops to sit down beside me. We're both quiet for a time, and then she picks the gun up from my open hand and looks down at it. 

"Would this have made you happy if it worked?" she asks. I'm prepared to shrug her off, not in the mood to entertain her delusions.

"Do you even know what I was doing?" I ask.

"You were trying to kill yourself," she says, matter-of-factly.  

It's a startling observation from her, because I wouldn't have expected her to understand what I was trying to do. Assumed her foggy mind would have interpreted things as something else entirely. Maybe thought I was trying to charge myself up, like she did with the batteries. After all she failed to register that her brother had committed suicide. 

"I don't know," I tell her, because really I don't. I'm a mess of so many emotions it's impossible to pick out any one. A part of me is glad, but every other part of me just hurts. 

"Well it makes me happy it didn't work," she says. "I think it would have made Stella happy, too." 

This rips a hole in me, large enough it has me wanting to snatch the gun from her and try again. But I don't, instead I just bury my head in my hands and try pathetically to hide from it all. 

Don't feel bad. Don't feel bad. Don't feel bad.

"It's not your time to die, Logan, we still need you to take care of us."