I look down. There's a red smear across the keys. I look at my hands and there is blood.
Is it mine? I do not know. The last six hours are a blur.
There is a snub-nosed revolver sitting next to me, empty chamber visible in the dim light.
Images flash through my mind, but I don't know if they are real or imaginary. Right now, I'm not sure what is what or if it is anything at all.
There's a bottle of whiskey next to me. I pick it up and take a sip. The last thing I remember before slipping into blackness is those words on the page in the typewriter in front of me.
...In case of my untimely death.