He holds the gun to his head. Click. Click.

Nothing happens. Another failed attempt to end it. Can’t do anything right.

He sits there on the edge of a motel bed looking through a window at an oak tree. Leaves green, golden, silken light reflecting on the glass, sparkles of white and crimson shade. He wonders at the beauty of a thing, a living thing that dies in winter, then is reborn in spring.

Why can’t he die?

He checks the gun. Bullets. Chamber. Trigger. He runs his fingers along the barrel and touches the tip. He firmly holds the gun in his right hand and extends his arm toward the window, aiming the gun at the tree. Seems okay.

He brings the gun back his chin, holding it underneath his mouth aiming the barrel upward toward his left jaw. He needs to aim it correctly. Straight up. Aim for the ceiling fan slowly rotating above him. There. That’s about right.

He pulls the trigger. Click. Click. Click.

Nothing happens. Again, a failure. He sits back on the bed and begins to weep.