The Bucket List

Steam clings to the bathroom mirror like a guilty secret. Pill bottles crowd the counter, labels peeling like old skin. A ragged cough echoes from the shadows. A trembling hand snakes out, snatches one up. Gary—pale, hollow-eyed Codey Steele—stares into his reflection, death's grip already tightening on his face. He slams the bottle down hard, porcelain cracking under the force. Then he bends low, guzzles water straight from the faucet, droplets splashing his chin. A deep, shuddering breath. The cough dies away. He stumbles out, shadows swallowing the room. In the bedroom, he yanks open a drawer stuffed with twisted relics—knives glinting wickedly, faded photos stained with regret, trinkets from nights best forgotten. He drops in a fresh memento, some blood-flecked token, and scribbles furiously on a scrap of paper, the list that haunts him. The front door creaks open downstairs. A woman's voice slices through: 'Gary?' He freezes, eyes raking over the drawer’s dark arsenal. Another breath, steeling himself. He slides it shut with a soft, final click. 'I'm in here,' he calls, voice steady as a lie. CUT TO TITLE Melissa—sultry Vanna Bardot, his so-called best friend—steps inside, all curves and concern. She's here for him, the terminal shadow eating him alive, ticking down his final hours. But Gary's got a confession burning in his gut: a bucket list forged in the blackest ink, sins he craves before the end. Top of that list? Fucking her, raw and relentless, claiming what he's always hungered for. Her eyes widen in horror, pretty mouth twisting as she bolts for the door. But Gary leans in, whispers of the worse horrors he's already carved into reality—bodies broken, screams silenced. The words hook her like barbs. She stops, breath hitching, and nods. She'll give him this, spread wide for his dying fire. Nothing's stopping Gary now. That line gets crossed, etched in sweat and surrender.