Categories > Original > Drama
+ Pick your poison.
Guns.
Load the bullets in - seven at a time in the compact, black cartridge. Click, click, click, click, click, click, click. Cock it (and ignore the sexual innuendo) as you pull it up then down, watch the used bullet fall out (or the new in), then up and down again. Position it against your shoulder, anchoring it by your mouth. Line the target up with the marker on the top of the barrel. Take a deep breath, letting a tiny bit out but not releasing it all. Steady your hand and thumping heart as instincts start to take control. Put your index finger on the trigger, take one final moment, and... release - finger shoving down the aching trigger. BOOM! The sound vibrates through your bones and the gun jerks back, from force, into your shoulder. Beware of the rookie mistake: don't pull the gun away from your designated position until you're sure you hit something - or someone.
What made shooting so addicting is the element of control, then came the power, then came the adrenaline rush, then the weightlessness. But control - that's what I loved most about it. Hell, ask anyone who shoots and they'll tell you the same thing. 'Cause, when your life is spinning out of control, that prime-lookin' pistol will always be in the palm of your hand, ready to scream at your command.
Before I got good, my friends at the Range always told me to imagine something I hate as the target instead of the red ring or the glass, should-be-recycled beer bottle or the cardboard-fake deer, ducks, and rabbits. I never really used that trick till I turned 12 years old. It started off with the small things, like a rock I might have tripped on while walking to school or a pet that may have bit me when I was handling it too roughly for it's liking.
I turned 13 years old. Things changed. It progressed to the visualizations of people.
It started with Mom. I remember, one day, she'd told me that I couldn't go to a dance with a boy, any boy. I got really pissed off and I ran, ran, ran down to the Range, picked up my reserved gun, and shot the usual targets. But, with each duck that bled paper and with each ring that was cut red, I pictured my own mother's head - my own flesh and blood - stood up on the stand. I imagined the shocked look on her face, the way her mouth would open to say 'Stop! Please!' or to scream 'Oh my God, I'm so, so sorry, Luxe!' In every one of those fantasies, I didn't listen. I just shot - bang, bang, bang, bang - all in a row, all hitting the target dead fucking on.
From Mom, it went to my imaginary father.
From my imaginary father, it went to my teachers.
From my teachers, it went to my worst enemies.
From my worst enemies, it went to my best friends.
From my best friends, it went to God.
And so on and so forth. And so on and so forth.
Things like this never just end, baby. Things like this never just stop.
+ Did you pick your poison yet?
Guns.
Load the bullets in - seven at a time in the compact, black cartridge. Click, click, click, click, click, click, click. Cock it (and ignore the sexual innuendo) as you pull it up then down, watch the used bullet fall out (or the new in), then up and down again. Position it against your shoulder, anchoring it by your mouth. Line the target up with the marker on the top of the barrel. Take a deep breath, letting a tiny bit out but not releasing it all. Steady your hand and thumping heart as instincts start to take control. Put your index finger on the trigger, take one final moment, and... release - finger shoving down the aching trigger. BOOM! The sound vibrates through your bones and the gun jerks back, from force, into your shoulder. Beware of the rookie mistake: don't pull the gun away from your designated position until you're sure you hit something - or someone.
What made shooting so addicting is the element of control, then came the power, then came the adrenaline rush, then the weightlessness. But control - that's what I loved most about it. Hell, ask anyone who shoots and they'll tell you the same thing. 'Cause, when your life is spinning out of control, that prime-lookin' pistol will always be in the palm of your hand, ready to scream at your command.
Before I got good, my friends at the Range always told me to imagine something I hate as the target instead of the red ring or the glass, should-be-recycled beer bottle or the cardboard-fake deer, ducks, and rabbits. I never really used that trick till I turned 12 years old. It started off with the small things, like a rock I might have tripped on while walking to school or a pet that may have bit me when I was handling it too roughly for it's liking.
I turned 13 years old. Things changed. It progressed to the visualizations of people.
It started with Mom. I remember, one day, she'd told me that I couldn't go to a dance with a boy, any boy. I got really pissed off and I ran, ran, ran down to the Range, picked up my reserved gun, and shot the usual targets. But, with each duck that bled paper and with each ring that was cut red, I pictured my own mother's head - my own flesh and blood - stood up on the stand. I imagined the shocked look on her face, the way her mouth would open to say 'Stop! Please!' or to scream 'Oh my God, I'm so, so sorry, Luxe!' In every one of those fantasies, I didn't listen. I just shot - bang, bang, bang, bang - all in a row, all hitting the target dead fucking on.
From Mom, it went to my imaginary father.
From my imaginary father, it went to my teachers.
From my teachers, it went to my worst enemies.
From my worst enemies, it went to my best friends.
From my best friends, it went to God.
And so on and so forth. And so on and so forth.
Things like this never just end, baby. Things like this never just stop.
+ Did you pick your poison yet?
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