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ThePoetVC Vincent Coleman

A man is at his cubicle, waiting to commit suicide. A mysterious stranger appears to intervene but not for the reason you may think...


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Waiting in the Dark...

    By 6:30, all the other cubicle rats had scurried out of the office. I watched them, one by one, walking out through the door with a briefcase in one hand and stacks of manila folders in the other. By 8:45, the janitor had locked the door from the inside so no one else could get in. He smiled at me as he told me that I could stay as long as I wanted. I wish he didn't. It makes suicide a lot harder when you aren't pressured by the time.

Only my light was on throughout the rest of the office. The dark walls that surrounded my cubicle seemed closer to me than I would like, as if they were intently watching. As if my cubicle was the stage to the play of my life, I was front and center for the curtain calls.

The papers stacked around me towered over my head. My workspace was cluttered with declined insurance claims that left very little room for actual work. The piles around me just watched in cynical anticipation, waiting for a chance to see me finally lose it. I was pretty damn close. I could feel the stress in my back, shoulders, and arms. It doesn't help that the cold steel of the gun seemed to wrap itself around my fingers.

I've never held a gun before. It's heavy, but lighter than I thought. The gunmetal black shined off my lamp. The amber glow is soaked into the dark that shimmered off the slide. Inside the chamber, a small round of ammunition rested. It longed to finally escape through the tunnel and meet its maker. I desperately wanted to meet him too. It only takes a second for that piece of metal to pierce the skull. I probably won't even feel it. I'll be dead before the bits of brain, blood, and bone spray across the stark white and grey of my cubicle.

Around 10:00, I finally found the courage to put the gun to my head. The cold steel slipped around from the slick sweat that dripped down to my ear. My hands were shaking from anticipation. At this point, my fingers were too rigid to even feel the muscles that would be responsible for allowing the trigger to be pulled back. I could feel the sweat drip down my clamp shut eyelids. I only opened them when I heard a voice.

"If you're going to do it, do it. Having me wait isn't going to help you."

22 de Marzo de 2015 a las 22:59 0 Reporte Insertar 1
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