His doubts were getting the best of him.

Just do it, you stupid son of a bitch. Have all of these years of that goddamn law school taught you nothing? I mean- I am supposed to be the master manipulator. Hell, I convinced a jury of forty to sentence that wicked old woman to life without so much as having to come up with a legitimate motive for the murder. So I should be able to convince myself to pull a fucking trigger, right? Maybe just a few drags would help.

He laid the paper bag back on the freshly made bed, walked over to his briefcase and looked around for a single match to light his cigarette to life. Inhale, Agitated, Exhale, Calm. If he was going to end his life, he would have to do it quickly; before the next days’ round of meeting, before the whore came over to his bedroom for another quick fifty, before he could talk himself out of it.

Poor Brian Milton walked back over to the bed that had been slept in at least three hundred times before him. He looked down at the bag, and slowly reached in for the 1925 Imperial .38 and pulled it out. Slowly he put the head of the gun into his mouth. Oh how the mental tasted of death; both a bitter cold, but with a somewhat of a semi-sweet aftertaste.

Really though, does any of it matter? It’s not like they will interview me when I get to Hell’s gates and ask how the gun tasted right before the bullet barreled into my skull. Okay, first step’s done. Now I just have to shoot, simple as that. I mean, just point and shoot. Like a camera, yeah, you’re just taking a picture of your last moments on earth, that’s all.

Noticing his overcoat felt a little more snug than normal, he decided to take it off and set it down on the matching double bed next to him. However, in the midst of setting it down, his wallet fell out of the left pocket scattering loose change a few receipts and a picture on the floor. Noticing what had fallen out, he decided to clear it up. For he was going to leave a large enough mess for the maids to clean, he might as well help out as much as possible. While picking up his belongings he noticed the photo of his daughter Cindy. He paused for a moment.

She was probably just getting home from her ballet recital. How would she take it when she found out Daddy wasn’t coming home from his business trip, that she couldn’t even call him to tell him about her day, or to wish him a goodnight and tell him she couldn’t wait till he came home? She’s five; it’s time for her to grow up. Plus, I don’t have any impact on her life. I barely see her anyways with how much I travel.

Growing tired of the mental tug-of-war game he had been playing with himself for nearly an hour, he decided to write a final letter; a short but sweet memoir that concluded with a final not on how he’d miss Cindy and how she were to be a good girl for Mommy. He finished the note, stepped back, took a deep breath and reflected for a moment.

But now his note had seemed silly. It just felt such a juvenile way to say goodbye, so he picked it up and crushed it firmly between his palms. Noticing a waste-basket roughly five feet away, he decided to make up a quick little game.

I’ve never been good at hoops, so maybe she might benefit from this. Miss it, and Cindy will be able to see her dad once again. Make it in, and, well…. Adios.

Stepping up to the imaginary free throw line, Brian concentrated. He took a deep breath and made his toss-
Three Points.