"One."
Fumbling for the trigger. Her crippled, wrinkly hands were trembling.
"Two."
She could smell her own putrid breath as she mumbled.
"Three."
She paused. Was this really what she wanted? Yes. Sure? Yes. She turned her feeble gaze to the walls of her crumbling blue house. They sagged like her swaying breasts, they stank like her mouth. Black blotches had crept into the corners and the floors, moist and fecal to the touch. Her eyes landed on a shelf, laden with musty picture frames, a few of them empty. Her three children grinned back at her, almost as plastic as the frame that encased them. Another picture was of her late husband, stoically staring into space. She glanced down at her ring finger and grunted. The skin around her ring had puffed up with age and fast food. She could never take it off.
But that didn't matter. Yes. This is what she wanted. There was no hope for a bitter old lady, tucked away into a shack that nobody visited. No money, little food, decaying dresses. She had nothing but her eighty-nine years. And boy, did they catch up with her in the past year. Already her teeth were falling out. Last time she counted, she had thirteen left. Or was it nine?
"Nine...no. Now," she commanded herself.
She aimed the barrel to her ear and squeezed her fingers. Nothing happened. She squeezed harder, the metal digging into her fragile skin. She could feel it turn white, her bones barring against the trigger.
BANG!
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