Checkers

The man’s fingers trembled as he held the cold cylinder to his temple. It had to be now. There was nothing left, here, at the end. Beads of sweat skittered down his forehead. His breath came shallow and rapid. Funny, how all the times he’d considered the unspeakable, he’d thought it would be easier; emotionless. Despair had drained away his feelings in the preceding months, yet now, in the end, they returned. Every suppressed fear, every joy denied the chance to bloom; they exploded in his head like a series of bombs. It hardly mattered. He had no other options, no escape. When you reached the end of your rope, all you had left was to hang. His finger tightened.