Despairingly cornered against a white, cold wall, I lowered my emotionally encumbered head to my knees as I helplessly cradled them. I needed human contact, I was well over the edge, yet so rooted to this unjust, grim reality. Inches away from my hind side was a grey, functional albeit derelict revolver, my one true savior, and the only one who could provide me a relief no psychologist could. I slowly unsheathed my quivering hand from under my knees. Once I reached the gun, my hand was suddenly bombarded with a quick, freezing coldness. It silently uttered to me, “You’re desperate, I know.” “How?,” I asked inquisitively. “The last person that held me felt hopeless , too” the gun replied, with a strong, evocative tone in his voice. Soon, a silhouette rested itself near my window sill, shrouding the frozen blue rays of moonlight I became accustomed to. “Well, what will you do,” the shadow asked, brandishing its scythe. I slammed the gun on the cold, concrete floor. “I’m staying here,” I valiantly pronounced.