I have been reading a ton of Chuck Palahniuk lately, and this little thing seemed to fall out of my brain cave. It's just a little piece. Hope you enjoy it, or whatever I should say in reference to that. nineteen. (One-Shot. Rated R.)Nineteen. That was the number that slammed into the back of my consciousness throughout the day. Nineteen. All of the planes overhead had amassed to that number. Each one was another way out of this place, another adventure, another fateful meeting for love. Work had gone the same as usual. Hours chunked by on a clock that seemed to extend in time without actually marking it. One face signified all customers that came throughout the day, all with genuinely reasonable requests: “Ten on pump one.” “Pack of smokes.” “Just this--that’s all.” "It’s for the a party tonight.” “My girlfriend and I. . .” Leaving the gas station behind, slouching onto the side of my car, the first smoke in eight hours left a head high that lingered. Fat raindrops cut the cigarette short, dousing the cherry out. Into the car, listening to the same CD for the hundredth time as the ignition flicks on. The album had remained in the player for weeks on end. No one else rode with me. No need in changing it. Reach the apartment complex, hop out in energetic strides, breach the barrier of the hallowed grounds of my home. Nothing to do. Check Netflix again for a new series to binge on. It’s the same old ****, a revelation that was growing tiring. Slink into the shower, gaze at the wall in existential depression. Get hit by the urge to masturbate, which brings bathing to a quick close. Dry off, crash on the bed naked, diddle, fantasize about past sexual experiences, climax, lay in the after glow, stare at the ceiling, drift to lovers long gone, check Facebook, look at vacation photos, burgeoning careers, new marriages, graduating friends, a new Ferrari, a paid off house, a new kid, an inspiring quote, new, happy, shiny, great, grand, spectacular, perfect-- The phone smashed against the wall in a shower of pieces. Sitting straight up on the bed in the dark of the room, the abyss met my gaze. Life never turns out how you think it’s going to, and sometimes, it’s even worse. An hour passed. My breathing remained still. There was no happiness, sadness, or anxiety. Filled with nothing, right to the brim. Nineteen planes flew into view that day, and I was not on a single one of them. None of the planes would ever carry me to a new life. Drifting from my bed, I reached into the top drawer of my clothes. Grab something out of it, get the urge to masturbate again, or eat, or check Facebook--instead I close the drawer. Stare in the mirror, finally cry, write a note, load the bullets, dance back to bed, feel the cold metal, cock the hammer, whisper to myself, pull the trig End.