Two Birds One Stone

Even though I haven’t done any manual labour, every muscle in my body seems to ache. Maybe it’s from anticipation; maybe my body is trying to tell me not to cross the line in the sand before me.. But the decision's been made. The gun in my hand weighs heavier and heavier every second I hesitate, clammy hands never being a problem for me before this moment. The past sociopath in me wrestles intensely with the man I’m trying to become, and even though I know it would be best to just let it take over, I can’t bring myself to put years of slow progress to waste. I’ve never been truly frightened before: no haunted house or scary movie ever bringing me past a few extra heart beats during a well places jump scare, but in this moment I am genuinely scared. I’m scared that when I pull this trigger the crying any sane person would be expected to do will be drowned out by a fit of laughter. I’m scared that this crazy circumstance will show me the piece of myself I’ve tried to keep at arm's length in a closer light than I ever could have witnessed before. Because it will no longer be out of sight, or out of mind. It will be in the mirror every time I walk into the bathroom. It will be reflected back at me any time I look deep enough into someone's eyes to see the reflection of my own. I physically feel a single thought turn into a word, it escaping my lips before I can put enough of my attention to what’s going on outside my own head to pull it back. “ Fuck.. “ I barely recognize the voice as my own, the exasperation and morose contradiction from my mind coming out just as audibly from something as simple as the tone I said in a single vulgarity. It breaks me. I haven’t even pulled the trigger yet and I feel the tears well up in my eyes. “ Fuck. “ I repeat it once more, closing my eyes and clenching my jaw as I try to urge myself forward. My hand moves up, everything seeming to slow down as I grip at the conviction I need to get this done. . It’s funny. You’d think in a situation like this the problem would be the life about to be taken. But I’m so selfish I’m crying over what might happen to me after. Before I know it I’m in a shooters stance, one hand on the cold handle of the weapon and the other supporting it. My finger sits inside of the guard, resting on the trigger, ready to end he who sits before me. Take away any and every possibility he has. I feel as if I should apologize, and try to make up with him before I do this dastardly deed, but I know it won’t matter. Instead I breathe, and try to bring my sobs to a more tolerable level. As the moment grows closer I feel someone else taking the reigns, but I’m too weak to stop it. Until eventually I’m looking through eyes that are no longer my own, waiting for the moment the change becomes set in stone. The tears fall, but the sobs stop. The heavy breathing subsides and the racing heart slows to a halt. Time stops entirely as what was once my finger squeezes a trigger, and the lead shoots from the chamber. The crack of the weapon echoes in the no longer empty room. Blood and brain fly out of the back of what was once a person’s head. My vision darkens as it happens, my consciousness seeming to disappear as my control had. The last things I hear as I fade away are three more echoing shots, and a laughter so cold it made me wish the darkness would come faster.. People would mourn the soul that once resided inside that corpse for years to come, moreso for themselves than for the person who once was. But what they didn’t know was: despite there only being one body in that room, two people died that day.