“Sir?” The gun weighs a thousand pounds now, but I can still carry it. I try not to, mom, I try not to cry, but I don’t know if I can stop it. I feel the tears build up, building pressure from underneath my eyelids and down into my chest. I see your face, when I watched you leave me at preschool, watched you smile at me, telling me everything would be okay, as I squeezed the smiling stress ball. I feel the weight of the gun, the sweat from the pain killers, the green from the cash register, the rest of my life in front of me, the firmness of the smiley face stress ball, the sand filled elastic, squishing it, squeezing.
I want to point this .22 in the moron’s face, but all I can see is his stupid smile, that yellow mocking smile, your smile. Read more →