His skin was a pale, sickly color and it was pockmarked with scabs and scars. He smiled and his teeth were the color of urine.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"You know why," he said. His voice was weak and straggly, but simultaneously strong. "I know better than the others. I know more than them about the inevitability of death. So here I am. Let's be quick about this."

"You want to die?" I asked.

"No one wants to die," he said. "Not even me. However, that does not stop the slow, inexorable push into oblivion. With every breath, every second, our death grows larger, looms closer. The others think they can avoid it, that by killing you, they can stop it. But I know better. Everything dies. Best to go out now, I say."

I held the gun up. "I need a bullet first," I said.

"You are afraid of death," he said. "Don't deny it. Use it. Everyone fears death. It's that finality, the period at the end of a life, they fear. They cannot conceive of no more moments, of no more time. Not even silence nor darkness."

As he spoke, I took that fear of death, of dying, that nervous, jittery feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I made a bullet. It was a bullet made of grave dirt and coffin wood and it was riddled with worms.

"Good," he said. "I want to feel the end. I've been apart for so long, I want to see how I come together before it's over." He smiled. "United in death. I like that. Go on then. Let me die."

I pulled the trigger. The bullet entered his body and he convulsed like he was having a seizure. As he shook, I saw afterimages of him, echoes of what was inside, as they fell into his body. There were hundreds, thousands, and then, after a minute, there was just him.

He clutched his chest. "Thank you," he said and died.