InsaneJournal

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Murphy

The gun felt heavy in his hands. It wasn't. It was probably only about a pound or two. A pound and a half, if he had to give an uneducated guess. It was the weight of what it could do, what he was about to do, that made it feel heavy. It was a simple movement, just a twitch of his index finger was all it needed. 86 god damn days in the bunker, and all the food was gone. It was either this or starve to death and he couldn't even do it. He was such a joke, a god damn failure just like everyone always knew he was.

He drew a breath, and felt the atmosphere around him change. He opened his eyes, and instead of the bunker, he found himself squinting in the sun. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, the last shreds of his sanity flittering away on a nonexistant breeze, making him wonder if he had actually gone through with pulling the trigger and this was some kind of manifestation of his dying brain.

The sound of an animal howling somewhere in the distance jerked him back to the present. He started, one foot stepping forward as if to catch himself and maintain his upright posture. He shifted his hand to rest above his eyes, allowing him to look out toward the horizon. "The fuck?" he muttered.

"Hello? Can anyone hear me? Hello?" he called out.His voice sounded foreign to his own ears because he was exposed to the open, not stuffed in some hole in the ground. There were no walls to contain the sound, and he barely recognised it as his own voice at all. He felt entirely off balance and disoriented and vulnerable.