My 21st birthday was, for the most part, uneventful. I woke up with a shot of vodka, drank beer throughout the day, went to a bar that night. Got laid. It was also, from my recollection, about the time I began to lose my mind.

Three days later, I got my permit from the Sheriff's dpeartment, and bought a Revolver. .38 special. Wood grip. It was beautiful.

It wasn't long before I built up the courage to take my Beautiful Gun to the range. I knew the place would be full of bikers, cons and scary people of the highest caliber, but I didn't care. I had to go there sooner or later.

The first shot was wonderful. Just enough kick to let me know I was alive. I fired twice more, and left, home to clean my Gun. Hell, I spent more time with that Gun than I did with my friends. Cleaning. Polishing. Loving. Come to the party with us, my friends would say. I can't, I would respond. I have plans. It wasn't long before they quit asking me to come.

Soon I was sleeping with the Gun, holding it my hand or in a pocket while poking around the house. Everything. I wasn't talking to it, no. No, I wasn't crazy. Was I? Am I?

The next time I went to the range, I brough one bullet. I chambered the round, spun the chamber, and aimed down range. I pulled the trigger three times until the round fired, and, satisfied, I left. Home to clean her.

Russian Roulette had fascinated me, captivated my attention, since I first learned of it. The idea of soldiers proving their bravery to each other astounded me. So noble, to lay your life on the line. And what else? A game to work your sanity, to twist it in all directions until it was broken, or you were dead.

It was glorious.

I fingered a round for a few minutes, after the cleaning was done, and put it down. I picked up the Gun, flicked the chamber out to the left, made sure it was empty.

I smiled, spun the unloaded chamber, and raised the revolver up to my head.

Click. I still smiled.

Click. My eyes began to darken.

Click. My smile faded.

Click. I screamed in anguish.

Click. I began to break down.

By the sixth click of the hammer, I was on my knees, crying. I lay there for at least an hour before I could compose myself, and I left, then. Left to drive through the night, away from my problems, and away from myself.

I left the revolver on the floor.

I came back to the house six days later. I missed the feeling of my Gun. The cold metal. The smooth grip. I was back again. And soon, I'd find myself toying with a single bullet in one hand, palming it without a realization. I knew what to do.

I imagined myself as a Cold War Russian Officer as I slid the single round into the chamber. Put my life on the line as I spun it.

I smiled for the last time as I raised the Revolver up to my temple.