[ WP ] Suicidal person realizes he can not die

There was supposed to be darkness. He had felt the edges of his vision turn black. He had felt the sound of his heater becoming more and more distant, the smell of his carpet and unwashed laundry becoming more and more faint. 
 
 The first thing that hit him after the darkness pulled back was the taste of lead and gunpowder. It was quickly followed by the worst choking sensation he had ever felt; by reflex he coughed and heaved, doubling over, crawling on all fours, until the object came out. In the midst of a pool of blackened blood and saliva, an expanded bullet now laid on his carpet. From where he was looking, it seemed like a morbid sort of flower. It was one in a garden. 
 
 In his confusion he tried to groan, but an inhuman rattle emerged instead as his vocal chords weaved themselves back together. He hacked and wheezed, feeling them rub together like sandpaper until layers of mucus coated them again. With great effort he moved his legs underneath him, feeling them take his weight again, and stood hunched. 
 
 It was a beautiful fall afternoon, and the sun was pouring through the window to draw the long shadows of every object in the room. His shelf of framed photos, a monument to everyone that had left him. His bulletin board, the archive of everyone he had killed. His gun, sleeping on the carpet with a string of his saliva clinging to it. Not even a minute had passed since he had pulled its trigger, and now he was standing up again. 
 
 He picked it up and extracted its magazine with experienced hands. It used to hold 18 rounds. It was empty. Even in his grogginess he realized the exact number of times he had tried to shoot himself. 
 
 Another minute passed, and his strength and clarity returned to him rapidly. His hunch disappeared as he craned his head backwards with a defeated sigh. The concept of immortality flickered through his mind and he tried not to give it too much thought, but at some level he already understood it. 
 
 `` Anticlimactic.'' 
 
 He spoke, feeling the nuance of every syllable again. His body felt fresh and unfamiliar. 
 
 `` Anticlimactic.'' 
 
 He holsters the empty gun and crumples up the note he had written. 
 
 `` Anticlimactic.'' 
 
 For the first time in what felt like years, he laughed. He felt his vocal chords vibrate and his bones bind his body together and his fingers tremble, not sure if he had become happy or insane or both. He laughed until his stomach hurt. He laughed to his framed photos, to his bulletin board. He laughed as he tore down his room, filling the air with the sound of broken glass and fluttering paper. He laughed, destroying his records, his journals, his keepsakes. The laughing turned to rage, then to tears, then to brutal silence. With each emotion his mind became emptier. 
 
 Even if he was denied death, he would die. 
 
 A man stepped outside the apartment building, confused and with an empty gun at his side.
