James brought the 44 magnum up to his temple. The gun bore a recently polished steel barrel that extended six inches from the chamber. Below that was fine replicated wood pistol grip. James looked into the bathroom mirror and laughed to himself. “That looks lame,” he thought. With that thought he jammed the revolver into his mouth. He imagined the crater-like wound that would end up at the top of his skull where he had started balding. “Yes. I think that should do the trick.”

He turned, walked out of the bathroom, down the hall, and turned left into his study. James approached his desk. He sat erect in the over-sized leather arm chair. It was this precise place where his recent thought process began, and must end.

The glimmer of the deep burgundy leather chair presented somewhat of a problem, now. If the blood were to dry before the maid arrived, she might not, nor would the police see the true mess. James set the gun down. “It would too absurd to switch chairs now,” he thought. “This must be the seat that I kill myself in.”

The hesitation grew into anxiety, but this was no time to lose ones bearing in its entirety. So, like years passed, James got up and made his way to the wet bar in the bookcase. He poured himself a generous glass of Brandy, gulped half of it down, and smiled. Things were just as they should be. He brought the snifter back to the desk and executive chair. James took another sip, and placed the glass next to the revolver. In front of him sat a blank sheet of paper wrapped in his vintage Smith-Corona typewriter. Placing his hands in home row, James began to type:

I regret not recording my observations in gruesome succession, but the whole of them are vividly contractual to my heavy drinking and the truths that surfaced in almost maniacal fashion. An extreme hatred for perception fell hard on my shoulders exactly four months ago to the day. I was scared at first, scared I was going crazy. After about a month it was absolutely real. My recent soul searching showed perception with great fangs of evil and ignorance. But with perception as the adhesive to existence, it cannot be overlooked. The populous is so consumed through experienced past and gone, while taking notice of only the more interesting perceptions. I have existed to perceive everyone and everything in a very unique manner. It is because of these perceptions that prejudices, hate, and other ignorant first impressions are capable. What I am escaping is this whole inexorable phenomenon.

James reread the letter for grammatical errors and smiled lovingly. He gulped down the last of the Brandy and slammed the snifter hard onto the desktop. With nothing left to live for he took one last look around the study. All of his books, expensive paintings, and exquisite furniture lost its value. Had it ever really been there before? James vowed not to ponder this sort of trivial genre, as he already knew the answer. He grabbed the revolver and shoved it into his mouth. Looking into the barrels reflection he saw a few stray hairs teasing their way out of his nostrils. He giggled through his nose, and pulled the trigger.

———————Some time later————————

A minuscule portion of blood had splattered and dried on the typewriter. James, ultimately relaxed, sunk well into the leather chair. His body slouched to the left from the weight of the revolver falling. The 44 was nestled comfortably in his crotch. His chest still motioned its breathing pattern. James was about to regain consciousness.

As James pulled the trigger his jaw clamped down hard enough to break several teeth. This caused the barrel to swivel down and to the side, missing his brain entirely. Only the right ear and upper nape of his neck had been mutilated; his head blood-glued to the burgundy leather armchair.

James came to, lifted his eyelids, and swallowed a wad of blood concentrated phlegm and teeth.  He gagged furiously, ripping his head from the leather. Motioning to conceal the pain, he found a severed ear. James attempted to scream, but only bellowed a muffled shriek. James perceived tremendous pain. Physical pain became his immediate reality. Perception had to be, and James felt ashamed. He grabbed the revolver again. With throbbing neck, James looked around his study. He cried at his stupidity, and failure.

The maid entered the room. All she saw was blood, some neck, and the revolver. She fainted. James rapidly became angry. He ripped the letter out of the typewriter, kicked the burgundy throne, and raised the 44 to his head, and shot again.

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