The gun jiggled very slightly in his hand as Terry spun the cylinder. The weight of only one bullet instead of a full 6 had thrown it off balance but only just. Before it stopped turning, Terry flicked his wrist to the right, causing a familiar click as the revolver’s cylinder snapped into place. He was used to the weight of a loaded gun but pressing the barrel to his temple, he marveled at how much heavier it felt. As if the this last bullet weighed 50 pounds. His hand shook slightly and he paused. Terry had used this gun many times and his hand had never shook before. He squeezed the trigger once. The sound of the dry snap as the hammer hit an empty cylinder was deafening in the still silence of the empty room. He dropped the gun from his head and looked at it as if he’d never seen a gun before in his life. Then he set it down on the table in front of him, reaching for a whiskey bottle. His hand was steady as he poured a last shot from the bottle into his empty glass. He smiled slightly at the irony and shot the whiskey down his throat. “Only one shot left,” he said to himself as he raised the gun for the last time.