Last Spin's Echo (TRIGGER WARNING: Self-inflicted death)

Cold metal
in my hand—
sweat slicks the grip.
They laugh,
sharp,
like glass breaking.
A circle of us,
five,
maybe six—
their faces blur,
eyes wide,
too bright.

Spin—
click—
the cylinder hums,
a song I can’t unhear.
My turn.
Again.
Third time,
or fourth?
Lost count.
Breath jams
in my throat,
a fist
clenching tight.

They chant—
“Pull it,
pull it!”—
voices sharp,
needles
in my skull.
I’m shaking—
can’t stop—
fingers numb,
heavy,
like they’re not mine.
The barrel—
cold kiss
on my temple.

Heartbeat—
thud—
thud—
skips—
races—
a drum
splitting ribs.
Someone giggles,
high-pitched,
wrong.
I smell
beer,
smoke,
fear—
mine?
Theirs?

I think—
Mom’s face—
her yell—
“Be home by ten!”—
too late—
too late—
this basement—
dank—
walls closing—
a trap
I walked into.

Trigger—
smooth—
under my finger—
time cracks—
stretches—
then snaps.
They’re quiet now—
watching—
vultures
with held breath.
I’m a show—
a dare—
their thrill.

What if—
it’s empty—
again?
A laugh—
mine—
chokes out—
dry,
ragged.
What if—
it’s not?
Brain screams—
run—
legs won’t—
rooted—
cement.

Click—
nothing—
last time—
hope flares—
dies—
faster
than a blink.
This time—
different—
weight shifts—
gut knows—
before I do.

Pull—
flash—
loud—
so loud—
red—
then black—
a roar
swallows me.
Their screams—
far off—
fading—
like echoes
in a well.
I’m falling—
no floor—
no air—
just gone.