Russian roulette, single player

There’s this guy. Leading a boring, unremarkable life. He remembers reading someplace that people’s lives are like mosaics, their experiences coming together with no rhyme or reason, to form the colorful tapestries that is their existence. By that metaphor, he feels his life is like glass. Plain, transparent glass, with tiny cracks spreading through, visible only upon closer inspection.

He has recently moved to a new place for work. And he hates it. He finds it hard to make friends, partly because he doesn’t really try to. The few people he talks to are his colleagues, and only when he needs to. He doesn’t really miss home though, for there is nothing much to miss. He never fit in there, and knows that he probably never will anywhere else.

His life pretty much boils down to this — wake up, go to work, return to his tiny apartment, while away the hours in solitude, go to bed and wake up the next day. And thus, he passes through life, each day like the one before, all making for a very colorless existence.

Until one day, walking back from work, he passes by a pawn shop. A sign catches his eye — ‘WE BUY AND SELL FIREARMS’. He is struck by an epiphany. He walks in, and asks to look at any revolvers they have. After seeing the hefty price tags, he picks the least expensive one, a little worn, but still in great condition (this according to the store keeper). Not having a license, he pays a premium, for the store keeper to act like everything is in order, who throws in a free box of cartridges.

Ever since then, this has become a ritual of sorts. Every day, he wakes up, faces himself in the bathroom mirror, loads the gun with a single bullet, spins the cylinder, and puts it to his temple. Looking himself in the eye, devoid of any emotion, he pulls the trigger. Click. Empty.

Knowing that his life is meaningless, he has now decided to leave it to chance. Should he continue his pointless existence for another day? One in six chances that he wouldn’t have to prolong this dreary facade. And so far, as luck would have it, the hammer has always missed the cartridge. For better or worse, he does not know. He knows that his passing would not be mourned by a soul; not a cheek moistened by a tear.

He is considerate enough to have spread plastic sheets on the walls and the floor of the bathroom, to make the cleanup easier.

Amidst this emptiness, the only thing that sometimes seems to brighten up his day is reading. He is a member at the local library, and once a month, he takes a cab there, checks out a few books, which he then proceeds to devour at leisure. One evening, late from work, he rushes to the library. Balancing a dozen books in his hands, he walks to the counter to have them checked out. The librarian, a part-timer from the looks of it, notices that one of his books is The Art of Racing in the Rain, and exclaims that it’s a very sweet book. Also very sad. He asks her not to spoil it for him. Surprising himself, he ventures to ask her for recommendations. And thus begins a conversation.

They discuss their favorite works and writers for a while, and they instantly forge a connection, one born of a shared love of the written word. The clock strikes nine. Closing time. She says she has to lock up and leave for the day. He reluctantly starts to bid farewell, when his stomach lets out an audible rumble.

She bursts out laughing, and invites him to dine with her. They drive to a chain restaurant, where the food is awful. He couldn’t care less. Their mouths are too busy talking amidst the few bites of bad pizza and garlic bread they chew on. Later, she takes him home, and he spends the night with her, in the most literal sense of the word, staying up until the break of dawn, opening up to each other about their lives, their hopes, their fears, and their sorrows, unlike they’ve never done before with anyone else. He wonders if it is chance that brought them together, the very same whimsical force that has deemed his life being worthy of extended for just one more day every morning since he walked into that pawn shop.

The sun rises, and he leaves her a note, with a simple thank you. She has dozed off, and he doesn’t want to wake her. He walks home, realizing that although he has not slept a wink last night, he has never felt this awake. Never this alive. He begins readying himself for work, stepping into the bathroom for a quick shower. As he opens the cabinet, he sees the gun.

He holds it, feeling the metal cold against his skin. He realizes he doesn’t need to follow his ritual anymore. He thinks he now has a reason to live on for, and that life does not look as pointless as it did, just a few hours ago.

One last shot, he thinks. Just because. Facing himself in the bathroom mirror, he loads the gun with a single bullet, spins the cylinder, and puts it to his temple. Looking into his eyes, he sees fear for the first time. Fear where there was once nothing.

And he pulled the trigger.

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