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George Hand: A Short Story

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George Hand sits on his couch struggling to load his only bullet into his revolver. He is frustrated and his body, wet with sweat. His hands were shaking making it difficult to guide the bullet into the chamber, but he finally succeeds. He closes and spins the barrel, and listens just like he'd seen on TV. He was ready now, for a solo game of Russian Roulette. He pressed the barrel against his temple, tipped his head forward and squeezed his eyes shut, his hands still shaking uncontrollably as tears race away from the well in his eyes. ‟Come on George, just do it,” he shouts to no one else in the room. He lowers the gun to his lap and takes a deep breath. He wipes away the tears with his forearm and says, ‟Relax...” He reaches for his bottle

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