Cigarette

A rainy and gloomy day, water droplets trickling down a building of cheap rented apartments. The drops flowed smoothly from the roof to the floor in the tenant's apartment. The tenant sat on a worn-out chair in front of a half-broken TV, next to an unmade bed without even a blanket.

"Isn't this too much?" Sam said, "Even on my last day, it's still raining? Can't I leave peacefully?" Sam was annoyed by the incessant drops falling on his head and the floor.

Quickly, Sam went to his desk, where he found a Glock pistol. He had spent most of his savings to buy it, not to end anyone's life, but to put an end to his own misery. Everything seemed trivial and insignificant to him.

He tried, he tried hard. He was an honest person, believing that with some effort, he could attain a decent life. But that life never came. He attempted to use the remaining hope in his heart for a better tomorrow, only to find a tomorrow far worse than he had imagined.

What's the meaning of a meaningless life like mine? What's the point of all the effort I put into improving my life? What's the point of all this? Just nonsense and futility?

These thoughts tore through Sam's mind mercilessly. He couldn't bear any more, he fought, he tried, and he failed.

He gripped the gun and contemplated it for a moment. The gun was coated in black with a touch of green at the handle. It was beautiful; Sam thought this gun might be the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Sam thought he'd be nervous, scared, and tense when holding the gun, but he found himself completely calm. He felt a strange sense of comfort and tranquility. Even the anger he held disappeared like smoke from a cigarette.

"Yes, I need a cigarette" Sam reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and placed it on his cracked lips. He picked up the lighter from the desk and skillfully lit it.

After lighting the cigarette and putting the gun back in his pocket, Sam went to the same worn-out chair to relax on it, or at least attempted to. He smoked the cigarette leisurely, feeling like his worries were dissipating without a return, just like the way the smoke left his lungs.

The cigarette ended, only a faded stub remained. Sam didn't care much and tossed it randomly. Who cares about a finished and withered cigarette? Nobody.

Sam took out the gun and effortlessly placed it against his temple. He momentarily recalled his last word being "cigarette" and a faint smile crossed his face. It felt fitting, so he didn't say anything else, because in a way, he was just a burnt-out cigarette, extinguished.

He felt calmness and contentment, yes, contentment. When was the last time Sam felt content? He couldn't answer that question; he didn't care either way.

He made sure the gun was positioned correctly, took a deep breath, and then pulled the trigger.

...

Sam still felt conscious.

What is this nonsense exactly?

He remained stationary, on the same worn-out chair.

Afterward, he felt a slight warmth and pain on the side of his temple, but he wasn't dead yet. He was fully conscious.

Then he noticed that the raindrops from the roof has stopped, the sound of rain ceased.

For a moment, Sam feared he was already dead, and this is what the dead experience, full awareness of their surroundings.

He was scared; he didn't expect death to be like this at all. He thought it would be like eternal peaceful sleep, not a complete consciousness!

'Calm down, panic won't help at all' Sam forced himself to calm down, realizing everything seemed frozen. He noticed from his window that the lightning's glow was steady and unchanging.

Then he attempted to move his left hand, the hand that held nothing.

It moved.

His hand moved!