The Elegant Bullet (Part 1)
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The Elegant Bullet
When a disillusioned writer chooses an elegant death — a single bullet, clean and poetic — she believes she has found her ending. But death, as it turns out, is only a doorway. She awakens inside the very world she once wrote — a world that was never pure fiction, but a fragmented reflection of her own life disguised as a novel. There, she finds herself reborn not as the heroine she once pitied, but as the story’s new villain — a cold, calculating woman hunting down the fragile girl who bears her former name, her past weakness, her forgotten pain. In this strange afterlife of ink and memory, the boundaries between author and creation collapse. Each page becomes a battlefield where she must confront the self she abandoned — the timid soul she once buried beneath words. But as she hunts her former self, she begins to realize: perhaps the true enemy has never been the girl she wrote… but the writer she became. The Elegant Bullet is a haunting meditation on identity, guilt, and artistic rebirth — where death is not the end of the story, but the moment it finally begins.
Doctor:
“How do you
wish to meet death?”
A voice
within ,perhaps it’s me, or someone else living quietly inside me whispered softly:
“I want it
to be elegant… and clean.
Maybe a
heart attack in deep sleep something gentle, almost considerate.
Or a bullet
to the head refined, even poetic.
But I have
no enemies,
no one who
wishes to assassinate me.
And if such
a person exists, I only hope the bullet they choose is of fine quality precise, leaving no mess behind.
I don’t
want my brains splattered across the wall.
Yes, I want
to share my thoughts with the world just not that way.”
Doctor:
“Are you
afraid of death?”
Me and this
time, I’m certain it was me replied:
“I don’t
know. Could you give me some time to consult?”
Doctor:
“With
whom?”
Me:
“With
myself, of course.
With the
courage that wakes when I’m angry,
and the
cowardice that seeps in when I’m afraid.”
Then
silence fell. A silence
heavy with the weight of a gamble neither of us dared to name.
He was
thinking, eyes flickering between brilliance and extinction.
What
decision was he turning over in his mind?
As for me,
while searching for an answer somewhere between yes and no, my gaze
drifted — as it always does — toward the small details.
His office
was obsessively tidy, yet chaos
had crept in, disguised as subtle imperfections:
a
half-empty cup of coffee, a wilted
plant by the window, and a novel
thrown carelessly into the trash bin.
I stepped
closer and looked at the cover.
“Didn’t you
like the novel?” I asked.
He lifted
his head without smiling.
“The
heroine was… too strong. She challenged the author himself.”
I said,
glancing again at the title:
“Maybe she
simply refused to die the way I wrote her.”
He didn’t
answer. He wasn’t even surprised by my confession. But
something broke — quietly — in his eyes.
After a
moment of stillness, he spoke, as if
escaping the gravity of the moment:
“Do you
want me to kill you now, or after you find your answer?”
Me, with a
calm smile:
“Do you happen
to have that bullet?”
He opened a
drawer and pulled out a sleek, silver pistol — elegant, almost artistic. It gleamed
like something from an old Italian film, equipped
with a silencer that gave it an unbearable dignity.
Me,
lightly, with irony:
“I didn’t
expect you to have a second profession, Doctor.”
Him:
“I don’t
kill people… I liberate them.”
Me:
“So you’re
a doctor by day, and Santa Claus by night.”
He smiled
faintly.
“But the
night hasn’t fallen yet.”
And that
inner voice whispered suddenly:
Oh, but it
has.
Boom.
The bullet
was truly elegant — graceful,
almost tender — as if a lover had found her way into me, eager and
precise, nesting gently inside my mind.
A strange
warmth spread through my skull, light
dissolving at the edges of my sight, and then…
peace
a kind of
peace I had never known.
The doctor
inhaled the scent of fresh blood, and sighed
like a man who had just ended a long war with emptiness.
He had
liberated a nation from its enemy… by killing
it.
But had he
chosen rightly?
The last
thought crossing my fading mind was this:
“Maybe
death wasn’t the end —
but the
beginning of another chapter, in a world
I never finished writing.”