Before anyone reads this, i just want to say that im sorry for any spelling mistakes or gramatical errors.

He sat on the bed, the smooth surface of the gun, cool against the palm of his hand. He couldn't take it anymore. This life. His father. No one cared about him. Sam had left him the first chance he got, his father had run off again, leaving him to sit and wait. Wait for something that never seemed to get any closer.

Shakely, he raised his hand up to his temple, pressing the the gun as hard as he could into his skin, in an effort to feel anything other than the emotional torment, that was running through his head. Taking a deep breath, he cast a final look over at the letters he had compiled, just minutes before, then pulled the trigger, falling heavily backwards onto the cheap matress of the hotel bed.

Please R&R.