Summer of 1986;
Somewhere in the distance I could hear Bon Jovi playing his heart out to ‘You give love a bad name‘, embedding the spirit of what I felt, yet did not want to say. It was too real. Too ironic. Yet I felt nothing.
Why was I there? I don’t remember. Following him through the mosh pit, I’d lost sight of where he stood. So soon. So suddenly. Had he noticed? I couldn’t lie, ofcourse he hadn’t. He had forgotten me years ago.
Reaching in my pocket, I pulled out my .357 Magnum revolver & felt it over. Smooth, so perfectly shaped. Cold & black; an epitome of what he’d left me to be. The revolver & I, we were one & the same, the same raw untapped rage within both of us, that only needed to be triggered. I felt it over & over, the moment seemed to be stretching on longer. It could lead to a beautiful disaster, or it could just let everything be. It all depended on me. I smiled.
‘Shot through the heart, & you’re to blame; youu give love a bad name’, I whispered as I heard Bon Jovi’s voice fade away. I lifted the revolver to my head. Finally in control; it felt good.
Fall of 1896;
It was a pretty windy afternoon, & so cold. The beginnings of an inevitable winter. I wanted to let go of things, needed some seclusion. I sat on an isolated bench. No one was around to see me. There were letters, his letters that I needed to burn, memories that needed to be left behind. Too bad they’d been etched into my mind so clearly, all the words, & what he’d meant by them. There was so much hate & anger, yet I could feel it wasn’t him. He wasn’t the same person I had met all those years ago.
There was the same revolver in my pocket I had for years. It still gave me the same feel, the only thing that was true to me. I liked having it around on days like these, when nothing seemed clear. It reminded me of possibilities, when I didn’t want to face the past, present or the future. Could I ? I took it out & stared.
‘What is love anyway?’ Ah Howard Jones played memories of the fall ’83 when we were still happy. I put the gun against my head & sighed. so many possibilities.
Spring of 1897;
It has finally been a year. I was free. I had promised I’d get over him in a year. & now I would. I went back to my apartment. What would be the ultimate way to do this? I didn’t mind the pain, I was going to be okay once I’d get over him completely. I played ‘With or without you’ in the background on replay, it only seemed fitting.
Opening the drawer, I saw my way out. It was right where’d I left it last fall.
I touched it again. It had no dents, it was smooth & still so black. He had given it to me to keep me safe once. I put it against my head, & I was ready to let go, yet I just sat like that for a while. ‘& you give yourself away, with or without youu’, I sang along to U2. Everything seemed right finally, & I wanted to savor this moment.
The gun was still against my head. But this time, I finally pulled the trigger. My life faded into oblivion just like the song. So fitting. So perfect.
Okay so yes, I know the story isn’t that good, infact the vocabulary sucked in it too. But it sounds pretty good in my head, also it gave me the chance to go through some old school music. ❤
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You’re currently reading “Chekhov’s Gun.,” an entry on Epitomal Fragments of a Teenage Mind.
- December 25, 2010 / 4:51 pm
- Short Story.