(no subject)
I can't remember why, but it must have been about eight or nine years ago. I sat on the edge of the bed my parents shared before my dad died. Mom was kind of cranked out back then, due to my dad's very recent death, and she was at work. I had moved back to help mom out, both with rent and moral support.
I didn't feel like I was doing well either. I had no idea that's what living with a tweaker was like. I thought she was just crazy with misery. We were barely making rent, which seems to have stayed the same to this day, in a different house, with different roommates.
I took the shotgun shell, and examined it, thinking "Does gunpowder ever go bad?" I placed it on the bed next to me, pushed on it a bit, to create an indention that would keep it there, like a little quilt bowl. I drew the cover off the shotgun, and looked at the steel and wood workings of it. I placed it on the ground, pointing up, and eyed it. It seemed kind of long. I thought about the Ruger that was sold a month or so before, and then then realized that the caliber might have been too small to really cause damage to my skull. Or that there was a chance it might not have caused enough damage to kill me, just vegetate me.
I kept the shell on the bed next to me, and pointed the shotgun towards my face. I thought, "I could just brace it in my mouth like this, and..." I raised my foot, with my toes splayed out, big toe jutting out like a stubby thumb. I cocked my head to the side, and eyed the trigger guard. I was sure that I didn't even need to put my whole toe in, that just a tug on the trigger would do the trick. After all, it was sawed down some, even if I moved a bit, it would still take most of my head off.
Since then I've wondered about that day, and in the low times, I've tried to measure and count how many beautiful things I would have missed out on if I'd have actually done it.
The hard part about trying to guage that kind of thing is that I start thinking "well, maybe NOW I've done all I can, and the rest is downhill..."
I didn't feel like I was doing well either. I had no idea that's what living with a tweaker was like. I thought she was just crazy with misery. We were barely making rent, which seems to have stayed the same to this day, in a different house, with different roommates.
I took the shotgun shell, and examined it, thinking "Does gunpowder ever go bad?" I placed it on the bed next to me, pushed on it a bit, to create an indention that would keep it there, like a little quilt bowl. I drew the cover off the shotgun, and looked at the steel and wood workings of it. I placed it on the ground, pointing up, and eyed it. It seemed kind of long. I thought about the Ruger that was sold a month or so before, and then then realized that the caliber might have been too small to really cause damage to my skull. Or that there was a chance it might not have caused enough damage to kill me, just vegetate me.
I kept the shell on the bed next to me, and pointed the shotgun towards my face. I thought, "I could just brace it in my mouth like this, and..." I raised my foot, with my toes splayed out, big toe jutting out like a stubby thumb. I cocked my head to the side, and eyed the trigger guard. I was sure that I didn't even need to put my whole toe in, that just a tug on the trigger would do the trick. After all, it was sawed down some, even if I moved a bit, it would still take most of my head off.
Since then I've wondered about that day, and in the low times, I've tried to measure and count how many beautiful things I would have missed out on if I'd have actually done it.
The hard part about trying to guage that kind of thing is that I start thinking "well, maybe NOW I've done all I can, and the rest is downhill..."