I Would Cry Out to Tell You, But You'd Not Be There
Everything was shit. Not, you know, literally, but Imogen's life had figuratively gone to shit. Her dad was dead, and Imogen had been through the situation billion's of trillion's of times. She had relived the moment every night in her sleep for two months. So, yes, thank you very much, Imogen knew every detail of how much it was just exactly her fault that her dad was not suffering from person hood any longer. She killed him.
Maybe she hadn't killed him directly, but they had been having an argument about Imogen moving in with Natalie. She had stormed out. He had a heart attack and wasn't able to get to the phone. Her fault. She had stressed him out. She had left him alone. Her fault, fault, fault.
Imogen stood up from her perch on the fallen tree trunk and started to pace around. The weight of the revolver in her hoodie pocket was daunting. The safety was on, but she was sure this was what she wanted. Being alive...it just hurt every second. And she felt crushed beyond recognition. Like no amount of attempting to re-inflate Imogen would work; she was just broken. And she was tired of it. Tired, tired, tired...done.
Taking the gun out of her pocket, Imogen weighed it gently in her hands. She raised the barrel, clicking off the safety, and placed it gingerly to her temple. And at that precise moment, she heard a twig snap nearby; someone approaching.