Sam’s Uncle David, the relative no one talked about, at fifty-five suffered from his own bout of depression. Out of work and, for the moment, out of jail, David, for the first time in his life, began to come to terms with how much he had messed up his life. He had nowhere to turn and no one to turn to. Sitting slumped on his bed in a run-down rooming house, he spent a few minutes watching mice scurry along the floorboards, then reached into the torn pocket of his black jacket and pulled out a small revolver. He put a single bullet in the chamber and gave the chamber a few spins.
I might as well die here as anywhere else. No one’s gonna miss me, that’s for sure. At least I’ll never have to go to jail again. Putting the gun to his temple, he clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger. He heard a click and waited, but nothing happened. Sweating profusely and feeling nauseated, he opened his eyes and lowered his right arm. Peeling the gun from the grip of his shaking right hand, he threw the gun across the room and flopped down on the bed, sobbing until there were no more sobs left in him.
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