Looming and imminent, the door pressed inwards on a separate layer in the strange animation of his present. His heart pounded forward, too fast, to the rhythm rolling out of ragged speakers. Sunset had sunk, and the room was dark.
Walls and floors tilted and tremored, terrible. Why?
The bottle his gun and the pills self-immolation, he burned through himself. Impotent rage and showers of sanguine sorrow poured out of him. He slammed the big red button, “self-destruct”, again and again and again.
He said silly things like, “There is nothing in this world; there should be, but they don’t allow it. I’ll not suffer through their horrorshow. I’ll sit here with nothing. There is power in nothing.”
He flopped on the floor against the couch, unable to rise. Nothingness flowed through his veins, a bottle of self-abnegation was held tight in his palsied fists.