text: In less than an hour I'll be dead. While the statement is true I though it was far too cold and impersonal for a suicide note. I ripped the top sheet of paper from my moleskin notepad and threw it in the trash. A few minutes ago I took some of anti-depressants, Google said ten would be enough, I took 15 to be sure. According to a forum post by *suicidegurl87* I should begin to slowly drift off into the good sleep an hour or so after ingesting the pills. The drugs are a backup anyway, a revolver lies on the desk with a single bullet pointing skywards beside it. At midnight I will shot myself, it's eleven fifteen now. I have always taken comfort in the knowledge that I could end my life if I so pleased. The ultimate power one can have over oneself, and the only power I still have. Now the time has finally come, and my feelings have not changed. Eleven thirty. A slight feeling of nausea is beginning to take hold, but I don't think I've ever felt happier. No fears, no worries, no insecurity. Peace. I take a sip of from a heavy glass tumbler, it's weight feels good in the hand, and savor the rich aroma of whiskey. My senses energize, the far off sound of a glass smashing reverberates through my ears, the smell of curry wafts in from the apartment bellow, the garish flowers on the wallpaper now vivid almost moving. Closer to death, closer to life. Eleven forty five. I scribble out a short suicide note. There's no time for a heartfelt explanation now. I couldn't justify myself anyway, even I don't know precisely why I choose this path all I know is there are no other roads left to tread. They'll have to make do with a simple apology, besides it's not for them that I'm doing this. Eleven fifty five. The time has come, I spin the barrel , and position the bullet in the chamber. Close it with a satisfying click, the starting gun for the end of my life. I raise the revolver to my temple and cock the gun with clammy hands. Eleven fifty nine. The phone rings, too late now, I pull the trigger.