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A/N: This chapter is a bonus, and a trailer chapter to the second part of the book. With this second part, there will be a difference in tenses, from past to present.

[Soundtrack: Mad World - Donnie Darko]
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Everyday is an internal struggle.

The path to the end, is an indecisive factor left to the discretion of my conflicting minds, and their antagonizing blows.

I fear to be hurt, yet I long for pain.

I want to be alone, yet I'm scared of being lonely.

This made me push others away, long for solitude, and secretly crave for a friend. When I find one, I blow some crazy gas into the hole, choke it all up, then use that as an excuse to push them away even further.

Building fortitude is my one of many ways of security: an emotional steel wall, with electric spines.

I'm no villain, but I definitely ain't a saint. My path is too soiled to be righteous.

The harder I try to chase people away, the greater their numbers stick. I wanna implode...scream at their kind undeserving gestures, but the sound is caged too hard in my throat that I gulp.

I'm no saint. I don't fight the wrong for the good of many. Maybe I'm selfish, or maybe I love myself too much to wanna care. But one thing is still sure, I'd cuddle a pillow and cry for your sake if I'm hit. But pillows and tears won't cut it this time. I'll cock the gun and aim.

I am.

In a quick snap, the bullets are excited with a longing to leap. The magazine throbs from the jolly jingling metal.

I do claim to be anti-good, but I, face to face with my demons -demon - I may very much be thinking this thing through over again.

Does shooting him make it right?

Does quenching his life really stop the pain?

I may overly be thinking about this thing.

"Shoot!"

I hesitate.

"Naomi, shoot this killer."

I hesitate more.

"Goddamit! Fire the fucking shot bitch!"

I close my eyes, and try these very same aiming processes again: With a cocked gun and a very firm grip on the gun's handle, a threatening look on my face as I force back my lingering tears rebelling so hard for freedom.

"I can't do this anymore."

I scream!

"I can't!"

I scream harder and drop to the floor.

The gun remain fixed within my fingers, but my grip is loose.

I find the courage to pull my self up, wipe my tears and continue the confrontation. But I still don't have the strength for this.

I look up to his face, and there's a mocking grin endlessly stretching on it. His face is black, like a silhouette. His skin is fair and crystal, and he wears a white suit. His hands and legs which were bound are now loose. The ropes curl on the floor, and his legs are crossing atop the other.

He sits like a king.

He reaches out for the gun, and I hand it to him without struggle. My body is stiff and frozen like a block. My mind isn't roaming about aimlessly, it is focusing; focusing on one thing, and that was the man who sits in front of me.

He has control over me. He, so intimidating, so much that my brain awes.

The smile he wears never once drops, as his white teeth lining across like a crescent moon and his stretching lips keep cursing my will. He is mocking my weakness.

He points the gun at me as he stands. He walks closer with the pistol aiming for my head. He stops and the nozzle kisses and glues to my temple.

I want to cry this time... Scream in echoing displeasure...gnaw an attack... Or rebel a little, but I cannot.

He keeps smiling -grinning even.

His finger are pressing hard and slow on the trigger. It finally reaches the end, and this pulls out the bullet. I can't see the bullet, but I can feel it pass through my head.

It was swift, it was fast.

In a mere instant a life ends, but right now, what seemed like reality, may more or less be a premonition, and everything not less of a dream.

It is a dream –a daymare.

My eyes slowly peels open, and I awake in my bed(what should represent a bed).

I place my palm over my chest to feel it drum, but it isn't pounding. I touch over my ribs, and I can feel my heart slowly pulsing. No sweat on my face, and no tears in my eyes.

For a second there I was dead, dead in my mares...or maybe it was in reality? I may never know.

I spring up then walk to the bathroom, and all the questions in my head were of if my journey this past months were all for nothing, should I just turn tails and give up?

Futile! Call it that.

Scared! Call me that.

Fucked! Call this world that.

Bitch! Shove that up fate's arse hole.

But, I'm not done yet, I'm only just begun...

A/N: This chapter marks the end of the first part of Fifty Dollars, Fifteen Cents. The remaining half of this story will be published soon, which will follow up with a change in tense and more...