The desert scene was captivating, I couldn't deny it. With the crystal blue sky and the dazzling sun shattering rocks and creating millions of cracks in the ground. The stone was hard and rocky, and I could even feel the heat through my sneakers. Light and harshness radiated off of everything that I could see. From the single prickly green cactus, already wilting and dying, to the darkness of the cracks and the things that crawled hidden in that darkness. But the serene and tranquil picture had a fault. While the picture was weaved beautifully and people came to stare at it from lands afar, they couldn't help notice but a messed up colouring, a small sinew of ripped and shredded string hanging off of the otherwise perfect weave. But they ignored that fault and basked in the glory of the beauty of the desert. But what they didn't see was the truth, the story behind that weave. And they didn't know that the shredded string was there for a reason. A gunshot filled my ears, a sudden loud noise shattering the silence into a hundred thousand pieces. It was shocking to hear the such gleeful laughter of a gun in the middle of a desert, but alas it happened. Bitter and sweet, harsh and kind, like Summer and Winter meeting as one in a flurry of red and blue. Fire meeting ice, but the ice didn't melt. It stood its ground as the wall of fire crashed into it mesmerisingly. The noise filled me half-way with fear, the other half with queasiness. As the sick sound kissed my skin softly, like feathers to the ground, I knew somewhere in the back of my mind it was over. Justice was done, Fate was struck. But I couldn't feel the bullet. No, it meant straight through my brain. I was grateful the poison refused to spread to my heart though, I wanted a quick death, a painless death. One could survive around a minute with a bullet through their heart, though it would be agony. Red beady eyes had erupted from the bullet as it sped towards me. It was a volcano of fear and death, pain and destruction. It was the dark ominous smoke that shrouded the horizon, depicting a dance. A deadly and dangerous dance that nobody was yet to survive. It was a dance of death. I wasn't so scared as the bullet seared through my skin though. It was, to say, a favour. And so now, the picture was woven again. This time, there was a young girl laying down on the ground, alone and dead, her expression blank, her eyes lifeless. She was a doll. The doll usually wore sunlight in her hair, but today she wore something different. Something darker, something braver. She wore blood splashing through the desert and sliding into the cracks, feeding the ground her liquids. Vultures circled overhead, ready to dive for the kill. This time when people saw the painting they didn't shout cries of joy or wonder. Their faces would pale, and they would retreat in fear. The scene now had a dark meaning, and the people didn't like seeing the new image. They didn't like seeing what they would one day become. Except, there was something different from how I died, and how they would die. Perhaps a car crash, or old age or something entirely different. They wouldn't join their family in the deepest hell. But there was something that I knew as I lay on my deathbed. There was only one hell. And that was the one I dwelled in so happy and free, so careless and stupid. I didn't know right from wrong or good from evil. But I knew now. Because let me tell you, there is no good and evil. Just capable and incapable. I was incapable. And now I would join my mother and father in the ground, whatever awaited me. Killed by my own bullet.