Fiction – I Draw Tight My Life

I am this anxious hand gun, and should I be otherwise, then I am not of any consequence. As I lay in a bedroom drawer, it is for unexpected dangers I await, for I am as yet unused. If I am picked up and then loaded, I know the bogies have come at last. But before then, while I am feeling uncomfortable, thoughts of distant troubles animate me because I am made to do things like the Man of Steel does; the one who gets to the trouble before ordinary heroes do. And I might yet take from God’s blind spots His power, and deal with the unpredictable in the only way I know – and that is to shoot to kill. Given the chance I channel His Will, preventing evil when faith and prayers have failed. I am the good gun made to take out bad people. I do so in the name of freedom. Bring me tension, and I am insolent before the cry of war. My trigger is taut, my barrels are clean, and my intentions are to clear the world of its human vermin and filth. I am not merely a gun. I have goodness on my side. If an entire nation’s citizens possess a gun, some are surely bad, and for them I am armed and ready. Freedom loving people who walk streets and drive highways feel they are free, because without protection from a gun like me, they are stuck in a dark space, paranoid and waiting. But also, daily killings and regular massacres are good for the gun business. In the free world someone somewhere will profit from something.

Action is my terrible thing. Because I am a gun I cannot feel secure like my potential users do, for I am their security. They are alert, and they wait. I do not fear, nor worry, nor am I restless. I am merely anxious. I feel this way because I know what is to be done when the time comes. I will maim, or extravagantly, kill. I may not know anything about the target. I might be used in self defence, or for revenge. As for what I am, I was legally purchased from a gun shop a year ago. I had been a sale item. This is all I know about myself.

I am anxious because I am aware of my power. Knowing that within my mechanisms, and through my seeds the bullets, there lies the potential for me to change lives, and this confuses me. It is a horrible feeling knowing that I am made to kill, and that is all I am made for, and yet my owners care for me. I wish I did not know anything about myself. My purpose is one thing, to respond to threat, whenever that will be, and then am I useful. But after all this anxiety I might be retired unused. I am not pretty enough to be kept on as an heirloom, so perhaps I’ll be crushed and made into motor car components instead. I like the idea of being a donor.

I am perhaps unusual as guns go. I’ve imagined myself reincarnated from a long dead human who lived unfulfilled, who might also have been depressed. And perhaps the person had an acute phobia. The person might have been paranoid. Isn’t there a saying? There is nothing to fear except fear itself. So much fear. I would hate to be human if this is what one has to go through to stay alive. All these mind games! And luckily I don’t have limbs or digestive systems that can go horribly wrong.

It is inappropriate to apply the word paranoid to me. That word is not strong enough. If I can imagine threats they must be real. I cannot feel rational without being deluded. I am impulsive when restrained. This world is filled with enemies. That guy sitting next to you in the cinema. See how he eats his popcorn funny. Watch him. That’s how I think. And threats are everywhere, and it is I who can solve these problems. Me and my fellow guns, and my cousins the rifles; kith and kin intelligently designed for danger. Guilty people, who kill with a gun, like to plea that their acts were unintentional, were in self defence, an accident; but to me, knowing what I am, it was all of the above and what remains unspoken. It is their malice, although it is also their right to self defence. ‘Tis pity the killers are so inarticulate after the fact. At the end of my barrel is a dysfunctional world, every sand grain and every water droplet of it.

I will change my demeanor from anxious to predatory when the time comes. I might then be released from my lonely situation. And if I am honest with my appearance, I am surely a predator. Look, I am comfortable to hold, I can be hidden, I can be fired instantly, my aim is true, my discharge deadly, my range of fire inspired. I am legal, an instrument of right, and an instrument of unrestrained power, innocuous and suitably deadly. I will operate and feel no guilt. I am the boisterous fish in a school of quiet fish swirling and twisting in a cold ocean. I am a black bird in a white feathered flock freely roaming and skirting the skies. I am a recalcitrant ant in a militarist ant colony. I am a killer bee frantic and nervous in an obelisk swarm. I am like any pack outsider.

Last night I dream’t that a funny looking alien was searching for me. It was an alien because it had a smiley human face with big rabbit’s ears, and it had the body of a wildebeest, and a scorpion’s tail. I must have been feeling a bit down. I wasn’t scared or anything. When it found me I wanted it to love me. But how could anyone love an object with a body like mine. But wait, I am powerful. I told the alien I can kill, or at least maim. I can play God. It’s not leaving me alone. That’s not an alien. It’s a Commie coming after me. No, worse, it’s the government! Why don’t you run with me instead, alien! We can be free together. I can help you. We can nest and fight as one. They can’t get us. We have a solemn right to do whatever we want. I’m in this prison drawer. Here, over here alien. Kill with me if you have to. It’s too tight in here. Too dark. I want to break out and do something. Who put the ram in Rambo! Run little gun, run. Find the big book where all the good lives, and read it, and reread it, repeat, and reread it. If no government, then freedom. If no freedom, then who may lawfully kill? There will always be bad guys. And there will always be aliens. Watch out for the cutest, they are sooooo deadly. Am I a gun? Oh what the hell. Am I a gun? In the wrong hands I am scary.

I am better off waiting, and to fret no more. Occasionally I am picked up and cleaned by my freedom loving owners. I like that. I’m not bored when my owners’ have me in their hands. I feel good settled in their sweet and sweaty flesh. I am treated with respect. You’ll not see me tossed or thrown around. No, they carefully pick me up, clean me inside and out, and carefully put me down again. I am a baby to them. My ominous alien is here with me. My deadly seeds lay in a box nearby. I am a gun who should be happy and need not worry, because I am bound to stay warm for the time being.



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