I took my time cleaning my gun last night.

Just like everything else in my life, it was structured. Discipline. Routine.

I could have sped through the process. I could have half assed it. Who would notice? There was no one else to notice.

But I didn't.

I took my time. I unrolled my cloth, and meticulously placed all of the things I needed to its right. Then I disassembled my weapon. I ignored the markings scratched into it by her pocket knife, a memento that symbolized it was mine. Not that she'd needed to. By now I could recognize every mark on my gun, every nick, every chip. But it was something she'd done anyway.

Okay, I guess I didn't ignore the scratch. I lingered on it longer than I want to admit. I brushed my thumb over it, traced its lines.

"R + M <3".

I think I cried. 

When I finished crying, though, I ignored the markings. I unloaded the magazine, and cleared the chamber. I removed the slide, and placed it onto the cloth. I took out the spring, then the barrel, and lined them evenly along each other.

With the top half dealt with, I worked on the pins in the lower half. Teasing them out, and then setting them down onto the cloth. I almost lost one of them, the trigger pin. Tricky little bastard started to roll, but I caught it. With that tiny emergency handled, I removed the slide stop and locking block. Then the trigger assembly, the slide lever, and the magazine catch.

With everything taken apart, I set to work cleaning. Wetting the bore brush with oil and scrubbing the parts to clear out any soot, unthreading the brush and replacing it with a jag to wipe it with cloth.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

And then I reassembled my weapon. Slowly, meticulously, almost lost the fucking trigger pin again, but made sure everything was in place once more. Pulled back the slide, and made sure it was functional. My thumb brushed against her mark.

I cried again. Harder that time.

I'd thought I was out of tears, and yet there they were. I hated that I cried. And then I felt bad for hating it, because she'd have wanted me to cry. Couldn't keep it bottled in. 

I loaded the magazine, flicked the safety off, and closed my eyes.

The barrel was cold pressed against my temple.

So unforgivingly cold.

I remember that was my last thought, before I pulled the trigger. 

And then I fucking woke up again. 

I woke up. 

I wasn't supposed to wake up. That wasn't the deal. When you chose to leave, you got to leave.

But I guess it didn't count, unless you did it on their terms.

Look, whoever's reading this, if someone's reading this, I'm sorry. You might think I was weak. But I was so tired. I was so fucking tired of it, and I just…

I just wanted to stop.

I just wanted it all to stop.

Fuck it. I'm in America again, there has to be a gun store around here, I'll raid it after I finish writing this. Tonight I'm getting wasted. And then I'm taking it to them, rambo style.

I hope no one's reading this, that I was the last. But if I'm not, if someone else got caught up in this bullshit, if you got trapped here, then…

I hope you got something out of my journals. Hope they helped, somewhat.

I hope I killed enough of them that when you read this, they're still whispering about me.

See you never, probably.

* Ryan