Page 18 of Beast

I jammed my key into my apartment, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, and blasted the death metal CD I’d left in the stereo.

San Diego was suffering from another late summer heat wave. The sun blazed outside the window, the excessive warmth incinerating my already torched skin.

I paced around my apartment, clutching my cell phone, but my fingers refused to press any numbers. I didn’t want to burden my grandparents with my pain, my friends were in the field at CAX preparing to deploy to Afghanistan. I was jealous of those motherfuckers, training in the desert of 29 Palms, able-bodied, fearless, free. I was a prisoner of my body, my mind.

I can’t do this anymore.

Another swig of whiskey, and I knelt beside my bed. One shot, that’s all it would take to end my suffering, my burden on this world. My spirit would soar free, leave my battered body.

Maybe it was my destiny. I shouldn’t have survived.

I shouldn’t be alive.

My life as I knew it was over. My career was finished. My best friend was dead. My body was in excruciating pain. I looked like a mutant.

No one would even notice if I was gone.

I grabbed my pistol, my Glock. No magazine; I always kept one round in the chamber. One click, and I’d meet my maker.

This wasn’t the first time I’d thought about killing myself—I’d always kept my gun close by, in my nightstand, in my glove compartment. It was like a prescription that was always filled just in case I needed it.

It was time.

I wasn’t afraid; I was at peace. I wanted to go home.

I placed the gun to my head, the cold steel imprinting on my temple, and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Nothing. Radio silence.

What the fuck?

I was still here.

Fuck, I can’t even kill myself.

Where the fuck was that round? I always left a round in my chamber.

Always.

No one had been in my apartment in a while. Only person who had been here recently was Isa.

Isa?

No way. No fucking way.

But it could only be her. No one had broken into my place to steal my bullet.

How did she know how to disarm a weapon? When had she done this? While I was in the shower? On the phone with my buddy?

I placed the gun down, debating going into my closet to get more ammo. But I just sat still on the bed, frozen.

I couldn’t believe that bitch had stolen my bullet. What if I needed my gun to protect myself?

If I ever saw her again, I’d make her pay. But I didn’t even know how to contact her. No last name, no phone number. Nothing. Only a memory remained that replayed daily in my mind. The sensation of her hot, wet flesh, of how being inside her erased my pain, if only for a fleeting moment.

I buried my face in my hands. And for the first time since my injuries, I allowed myself to cry.