Hello, Gun

Hello, gun, my old friend. I see you're at your old tricks again.

You seem as indifferent as usual. Almost complacent really, especially in the face of what is to come. When he pulls the trigger. When the trigger releases the hammer. When the hammer slams face first into the primer. The bullet spiraling down the grooved cave, heading towards the light at the end of the tunnel until...

Birth. Life. Death. All in the same moment.

Tell me, gun, how does it feel? How does it feel to be handled by a person with such exactitude; with such confidence? What's it like to mother a race of hollow-tipped children who's only fate is to become mere shells of their former selves?

I guess I should ask the same thing to the man who shot me.

After all, isn't there a cause, a creed, somewhere out there that is pulling his trigger the same way he is pulling yours? In the end it seems to be a complex contraption with a simple purpose. The politician rants, the fists fly into the air, the screams bellow.

The trigger pulls.

The hammer falls.

The bullet spirals.

My body hemorrhages.

And I, gun, what of I? I am born, I live, and I die, all in a split second.