Too many talk in the U.S., about gun violence and the scars it leaves behind in our lives. I’m not writing this post to join in the conversation. Too bad we fail to see things from the gun’s perspective. What would it seem if a gun were allowed to tell its own story? Such was the theme behind this old story of mine:
STORY FROM A GUN
Oh men … why can’t fellas just let me be? Look at the way they scramble about just to get a-hold of me: pick me up after trading in some cash, then use me however way they want before dumping me just when I’m starting to grow hot, I just can’t understand none of this.
It’s like I’m a gun. That’s all I am, a stupid cold-hearted gun.
There I was on that day, lying between some stinking underwear clothes in the depths of a cabinet drawer, trying to catch me some early evening snooze, when suddenly a light came on and I felt my owner pull out the drawer and delve his hands between the clothes and pulled me out. The fool checked my clip underneath, wanting to make sure I was fully loaded and ready, and then said: “Okay homeboy, let’s go do this.”
He tucked me into the waistband of his jeans and together we bounced out of his crib. He had a ride waiting on the alley round the back; he had several other fools from his goon squad waiting for him. After a brief exchange of handshake and cat-names, he jumped into the back and that was when the car came to life and we headed out into town.
There was Rap music floating out of the stereo. Someone lit up a reefer and passed it about as we made it along the city traffic. At least for now, until whenever the action started, I had some brooding time to myself.
It’s at times like this that I absolutely hate myself, hate what I am and everything that comes with my lifestyle. Why can’t I somehow be an instrument of Life, I wonder. So much I wish I could find myself in the hands of working doctors and surgeons, instead of keeping company with ingrate fools such as these ones.
It wasn’t long before we arrived at our destination at some dark looking building somewhere close to the city docks. The boys brought their heads together and quietly whispered among themselves, wanting to know who’s going to be the one to go up there and do what needs to be done. My owner raised his hand, saying: “It’s been a while since I pulled my heat. Let me be the one to cap that fool!”
The others agreed and told him it’s on. He jumped out of the car, pulled me out of his waist, cocked me up and together, as quiet as two mice we made our way into the building while the others waited. Unknown to my owner, I too have long been waiting for a moment such as this, and for a long time now I’ve searched for just the right opportunity to spring my surprise on him.
Soon we got to the door where my man’s enemy was waiting. He tensed for a moment before kicking in the door, aiming me at the guy who was inside the room.
“I’ve got you now, SUCKER!” he yelled, just before pulling my trigger.
And that was when I sprung my surprise at him.
All he heard was a click and nothing more. You ought to have seen the shocked look that was on his face when he squeezed my trigger three more times before it registered in his mind that it was actually jammed.
It was enough time for his enemy to pull out his own weapon and aim it at him; unfortunately for my owner, his didn’t jam.
I heard the shot explode from the other dude’s gun barrel and heard my owner cry out before dropping dead on the floor, bringing me down with him. He was finally dead. I felt I would miss him but I didn’t. All the times I’d saved his life, he’d been one thankless bastard – at least I gave him power while he was alive.
And there I lay for a while, feeling happy about everything. I was now free with my life. But that ended when the cops arrived and I felt someone else pick me and locked me up in an evidence bag.