The cool touch of metal on his temple was oddly soothing. Not a feeling the muzzle of a gun should evoke, even if it was a defunct product from an antique store. Cross had never been a gun person, really, nor was he an antique person, but the selves of his apartment never lacked trinkets. Waving cats, porcelain pots, weird and twisted figurines made of metal… though he never bought any of them. The weapon in his hand was the only item he personally bought. Not that he wanted to. He’d only visited that store because it was one of Liza’s favourite places to browse around for things to buy. He’d never intended to purchase anything. But when his eyes fell on the gun, it’d drawn him in like a snake does its prey.

A flintlock pistol. With a brass muzzle and a butt made of wood or maybe the horn of some animal, he couldn’t quite tell. It was one of those things you’d see pirates use in a movie. Not really an uncommon thing for enthusiasts. Or it could be. Cross didn’t know. What made it different from the others was its design. It lacked a hammer, the thing essential for guns to actually fire a bullet; instead, a few thin tentacles made of silver, with suckers and everything, came out from the gap where the hammer should’ve been and loosely wrapped around the muzzle. Their ends twisted back, reaching towards the trigger as if trying to touch it, but not quite able to. And looking at them, Cross had an odd feeling of being looked back at.

And not only that design.

Holding it in his hand, it had as much weight as an object of its size and composition should have, but to Cross, it felt far heavier than it had any right to be. Like this thing had a strange gravity, a... a force of its own. Like he wasn’t holding an object, but a gargantuan monster in the palm of his hand. Cross felt like he could destroy the world with it if he wanted to.

If he wanted to.

Once again, he brought the mouth of the gun to his head. He didn’t need to destroy the world. As long as the thing could fire one bullet, that would be enough.

But it was just a prop. A decoration. It won’t fire. He’d just brought it on a whim, the useless thing. He didn’t know what to do with it, short of beating on his head with it. That’d probably only knock him out, though, not kill him. And then someone, maybe his aunt, would get worried and come to check on him, find him on the floor, and send him to the hospital. It wouldn’t be that great an injury, so they’d be able to patch him right back to health.

They’d save him, though they couldn’t save Liza.

Man, he hated hospitals! Incompetent hacks. Failures at the most critical times, just like this gun. Only a prop, a decoration. Nothing else.

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“We did everything we could,” they’d said. Yeah, but they hadn’t saved her, so what was the point in doing everything? And why was their ‘everything’ so useless? Whatever they could, they should’ve...

“If she was here a bit earlier…”

So… was it his fault, then? Not the hospital’s? Of course, it was! Whatever obstacles there were on the way, he was the one who failed her.

Why did he? How could he?

He’d been ignorant. Her dizziness, muscle cramps, vomiting… and he couldn’t spot the signs for what they were. Thought she just needed some air.

Needed some air!

Man, he hated himself! His ignorance was his sin. He should’ve been the one to die. The gun was useless. His apartment was only on the second floor. Not really high enough, either. Should he try some rat poison or something? Would it be painful if he took some? He did deserve the pain. He deserved a lot worse than what she had to go through. Or maybe… he’d try following her path?

Cross stood from the sofa, gun in hand, and walked towards the balcony. It was a dry, hot summer day of May with not a single wisp of cloud to be seen. Midday, when it was the hottest. He inhaled. One long breath at a time, he took in the heat, just as intense and relentless as that day. He let it seep into his skin, his blood, flesh, heart until it saturated him.

Until it made him sick.

He wanted to be sick. As sick as Liza had been when the heat took her from him three days ago... through a heat stroke.

Though a fucking heat stroke!

He looked up, glaring at the fiery ball of light that hung carelessly in the sky. Light pierced his eyes like burning needles, raising an almost uncontrollable impulse to turn away, but he revolted against that feeling. Grimacing; tightening all his muscles, all his tendons; using all his hatred, anger, and anguish, he pushed down that instinct. He kept his eyes peeled even as tears pooled in their corner and trickled down his cheeks. His retinas were probably getting fried right now. But it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t need these eyes for long. For now, he just wanted to burn.

The giver of life for all lives on this planet, and it took away the light of his life. Snuffed her out when she was the brightest! And now it was hanging there without a care in the world like it had no remorse for what it had done.

Man! He fucking hated that ball of fire. A jealous, stupid, useless waste of space. He wished it’d just explode and disappear.

Without thinking, Cross raised the antique gun, pointing straight towards the round disk of blinding light. Staring without a single blink, he poured all the venom he’d accumulated in his burning heart in his fingers as he pulled the trigger.

“Fuck you, Sun!”