A bullet with your name on it

He stood before his dresser mirror, then looked down at the photo of his wife and son. He’d taken the photo: broad smiles on their faces. He couldn’t remember where he’d taken the picture, only that he had. Every once in a while, he felt like he was about to remember. A picture of him wearing a military uniform, bold and proud. He opened the side-drawer and glanced down at the revolver. He picked it up and lifted it; looked at the cylinder and emptied  all but one bullet, then locked it back in and spun the cylinder.

He stood and looked at himself in the mirror again, gun pressed against his temple. Broad shoulders, dark brown eyes, stubbled face. Pulled the trigger.

Click. Nothing.

Again. Click. Nothing.

Again. Click. Nothing.

His eyes narrowed.

Click. Again nothing.

Click. Nothing. He stared. Bitter and hateful at his reflection.

Click. Nothing.

Six times, nothing. He pointed the gun at the window and pulled the trigger. A loud clack and the gun jolted.

“Damn you.”

He put the gun down and got dressed. Then he checked his long brown coat for his badge and smokes. Refilled his gun and placed it in its holster.

“Damn you.” He walked out of the room and down to his car. Just another day; like all the rest.