On The Possibility Of Things Being Not What They Appear (or A Different Kind Of Firework)
In America they called it eating your gun, and it was the most popular method of suicide for those in the law enforcement sector. For this reason it was also referred to as cop’s disease.
Not that he had ever been a cop. nor did he feel any sense of ownership towards the gun. It was merely an object he had acquired, a tool to be used once. It was a small thing, a .22 calibre, or so he had been told. He placed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Afterwards, he sat there for a while, unsure how to act. The gun had gone off, he was sure of that. His mouth was full of the taste of gunpowder, blood and burnt flesh. He turned around to look at the wall behind him. It was clean, and when he put his hand to the back of his head there was no exit wound. Still this was not unusual for a small calibre pistol. Often the bullet ricochets off the inside of the skull and rattles around inside the brainpan.
Still, it was disappointing that nothing seemed to have changed. He was at least expecting not to have to think about anything, and yet here he was, deep in thought. That was when it occurred to him that he didn’t feel any pain from the gunshot.
Finally he got up and walked out of the house into the garden. He opened up a deck chair and sat there, feeling the sun on his face. I’ll just sit here a while, he thought. And wait.
Nicolas Papaconstantinou
I love this so hard it hurts. It’s possible that I have a thing about casually should-be-dead-but-maybe-aren’t characters.
That you give no explanation of the before, or the after, just makes it so much better.
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