Finally I decided, on the edge of the bridge over the railroad tracks, with the barrel in the mouth into the trachea, without really knowing why and under a clear summer night sky. Heat depressed me more. The stars were not the exception. Ironically sober, therefore, also depressed me. And my useless self-life depressed me more than anything. He was alone. And I thought Mabel, in her hair, her legs, every moment. As soon I could feel like smiling and pulled the trigger.
Something happened. Perhaps there were no bullets. I pulled out the Luger and a thick slime left by the barrel. He had thought too.
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