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Updated on April 17, 2013

They labeled me insane. I grip my six-shooter, press it to my chest, and stroke the barrel like it was a swaddled child; it is cold, clean and unused. The aroma of fresh gun oil graces my nose as I slouch in a corner of the room on a weak and aging spring mattress. It sags in the middle, but I’ve got other things on my mind right now. My aching back presses against the pale and filth-covered wall as I observe a large American cockroach climb towards the ceiling. On the bed there’s an assortment of bullets scattered about, some in boxes, some not. In the center of the room a covered light hangs from the ceiling, flickering and bathing everything in a dirty yellow tint. I extend my arm, aim the pistol at the ceiling lamp, and pull the trigger.


I drop my pistol-gripped hand to my lap and affix my gaze at the dark corner opposite myself, or at least the large heap of random junk piled up there. The heap of junk is moving, slightly stirring, and staring back in my general direction. I see no eyes, but I know it is watching me. Slowly the garbage pile comes to life, forming the jagged shape of a small child whilst it arises from its time out in the corner. It stands on two legs now and starts limping towards the bed. Dear, God, why must you torment me? My body is filled with fear, however I comfort myself in knowing that I have a guest. My eyes remain affixed on the demonic dustheap while I keep my fingers busy searching for some scattered bullets. I blindly load a few into the chamber and softly click the gun closed. My hand quivers violently as I raise my arm and point the peacemaker at the vile visage. I shut my eyes and squeeze the trigger.




Is it gone? Is it dead? I wait a few minutes, paralyzed with fear, before opening my eyes. The menacing monster is back in the corner, a motionless heap of junk. Two bullet holes decorate the wall next to it. They labeled me insane. I think they might be right. I’ve been struggling all my life. I turn the smoking barrel around, place it under my jaw, and pull the trigger one more time.



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