Charles was looking intently down the barrel of his Webley Mk VI service revolver. He would deny it if you asked him, but he was trying to see whether he could see the brass head of the single shell that he knew was in the gun.
He knew it was in the gun, because he had put it in the gun, spun the revolving mechanism, cocked the firing pin and then pointed the gun at his forehead. Charles had done this, well, because Charles didn’t really fancy living anymore and the good thing about a war is that it means there are many ways of topping yourself. Charles liked the poetry of killing yourself with your own service revolver, so he had chosen that route.
As he had begun to quite literally look down the barrel of his own suicide attempt, he had started to question the whole idea. Perhaps staying alive was the best way to remember Alexa and indeed it is probably what she would have wanted, despite her nihilism.
He lowered the gun and took two deep breaths.
Then he raised the gun, pointed it to the ceiling and pulled the trigger.