The prompt was: Derek and the number 90210.
Derek brought the 9mm bullet to his lips, gave a ritual suck to the tip and snapped it into the top of the magazine. Eyeing the load with satisfaction, he filled the empty cavity of the Glock, pushing until it clicked firm against his palm. His fingers knew the handle well and wrapped comfortably around as he yanked back the slide to chamber a round. He was ready. He tucked the gun in his jeans and stepped out into the morning.
The sun was just peeking around the back of the house and the air breathed crisp in his lungs. He savored it—expanding his chest fully before stepping down to the shady grass. It tickled damp and cool between his toes, giving way to dry blades as he crossed into the light at the swing set. His hands grasped the rough, rusty chains and he sat, letting his feet rock gently against the patch of dirt worn through the earth below. He'd seen Sarah sit there countless times over the past few years, swaying back and forth, alone. Now he knew why. It was soothing—comforting. His head felt clear.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved a tightly crumpled piece of news, torn from a page of the day's paper. A rip streaked through when he opened it, tearing apart the photo printed there. Derek's hand began to tremble as he held the pieces together and looked once more at his brother's face.
The body of a young boy discovered in the wooded section of a park in North Hollywood on 9/02/10 has now been identified as that of missing 7-year-old Kyle Reese.
A tear slipped down his cheek. He let go. The paper fell to the grass.
He tilted up his head to capture a warm beam of sun, pulled the Glock from his waist and pressed it to his temple...
"The machines can have it."
...and exhaled his last.