I’m not any kind of writer. I’m not John Grisham. I don’t even read except for the sports page. So if you don’t like my writing style I don’t give a shit. What I’m going to do when I’m done putting all this down is wrap the notebook in fifty layers of Saran Wrap, stuff it in a bunch of Publix bags, and lock it up in the gun safe. The safe’s supposed to be fireproof.
I don’t have to tell you that. If you’re reading this you must’ve gone to a hell of a lot of trouble to get to it. If there even is a you. My bet is no one will ever see this.
Why am I writing it, then? Something to do before I die. The TV doesn’t work anymore. Nothing does. I don’t have any kids (that I know of, hyuck hyuck) to leave anything to. No close family. A few friends, but I’m sure they’re dead now.
I’m next. I can hear them outside. They’ll find a way in and that’ll be that. You can’t shoot them. I mean, it’s impossible. So when they do get in I’ll put my Colt 1911 to my eyeball and pull the trigger.
I hope it doesn’t hurt.
(Taken from The Bitterness of Honey by David Dubrow.)
This story, along with twelve other hard-hitting tales of science fiction, satire, horror, and more are available in Appalling Stories: 13 Tales of Social Injustice!