Gun Sentence:
17cm of plastic and metal. 9 mm and 17 rounds, resting in the magazine. The handle is large and moulded into shape. It feels heavy in your hand. You look at it, no safety catch – professionals don't need safety catches. You point the barrel down, a number is printed on the base, 1456. You bring the barrel back up and pull the hammer back. It makes a delightful clunk. You know there's only one thing left to do. You smile and hold it level with your chest. You breathe deeply, filling our lungs to the max. Your eyes digging into another pair which intently stare back. Those blue eyes, normally so full of life are now old. The deadness making its presence clear. You breathe again and squeeze the trigger, resulting in a loud bang. All the components working well as a team. You fall to the ground, dust getting caught, almost attracted to your hair. You feel good, the warm blood running over you – it's satisfying. Reassuring. The owner of the old eyes still stare at you. This time, they're crying. He walks over to you and runs his gnarled fingers down your face. You smile at him and he begins to disappear being replaced by nothing. You can still feel your hands. He holds them to his lips and whispers broken nonsense into them. It breaks your already broken heart. You want to make things better for him but with all the things he's seen it's not justified. You want to hold him and kiss him and tell him it's ok. He's broken after watching you do this, but he didn't stop you. Maybe he wants to end it to, maybe he understands your pain, or maybe he doesn't care enough. He cuddles your cooling body, your blood staining his shirt. He carries on whispering nonsense. He whispers I love you. And those three words have stayed with you. Ever since you carried out your own. Gun. Sentence.
