The clickity-clack of the typewriter keys fill the room; my final work was almost complete. For ages I had planned it. I had written it a hundred times, a thousand times! Now though, it wasn’t only ink on a notebook, a napkin, a newspaper, it was happening. No one would believe it. Everyone always said I didn’t have it in me. I will prove them wrong. Prove them wrong a thousand times over!

Another paragraph down. I slap the carriage return, another line done.

Slap, write, slap, write, another page down. Feed the paper, write, slap, write.

With triumph, I type the last letter. I stack the pages, sign the front, reach into my desk and pull out the revolver. I smile as I hold it to my temple; they’d never believe it.

I pull the trigger.