.38

"You better stop," he told himself, "this is totally not worth it! Not at all!"

Maybe she meant a lot to him, more than himself, but he doesn't worth anything to her.

Plus, she already had someone.

He logged on to his Friendster, he's not among her top friends, same thing happened in Facebook -- after all these that he had done to her.

He began to wonder why.

Girls are hard to understand, he told himself.

Is that really so?

Night. He was scratching his head, sipping his beer, getting dizzier and dizzier. He looked at himself in the mirror. All of a sudden, he thought he was the ugliest and weakest motherfucker on earth.

There went the bottle.

The mirror smashed, but his hands just got started to punched the remaining pieces on the frame. Blood splattering. Fists painted in crimson.

He panted like a beasts, twisted open another bottle cover, kissed the bottle for a sip.

* * * * * *

She gave Frank a deep stamp on the lips.

"Don't worry baby," she told him, "however well he treated me, you're still the only one for me."

* * * * * *

His fists stopped bleeding, his eyes closed, his chests still rising and falling for more oxygen.

"You better stop man," he told himself, "you don't mean shit to her. You better stop NOW..."

Tears flowing.

Last drops of beer dripping.

All he wished is he had a .38. Yes, .38 is enough. Enough to finish himself.