"I don't want to do this," the man whispers.

"You have to believe me," he chokes, "I don't fucking want to do this."

He sobs and his hands tremble, but the barrel of the gun remains steady, pointed at the young woman who stands in front of him.

"Don't do it then," she pleads, touching his arm.

"You don't have to - "

He flinches away from her, eyes wild, and dark.

Kill her, a voice screams. 

Do it.

"No."

The dark-haired man bites his lip harshly, willing himself to drop the fucking gun.

"No, no, no."

Kill her.

"No," he shouts.

He doesn't want to.

He doesn't fucking want to.

Do it now, the voice insists.

His finger slips to the trigger, and he stares at her helplessly.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, the words tumbling from his lips. 

Useless, he thinks.

Useless fucking words.

She stares back at him, her own eyes brimming with tears.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he repeats.

And then she smiles, a sad sort of smile, that makes him catch his breath, before angling the tip of his gun, so it sits pressed against her chest, just over her heart.

"Don't be."

The man chokes out another apology, clenching his eyes shut, as he pulls the trigger.