Guns

With placid detachment I view the scene placed in my mind by some unidentifiable "other." Testing, testing....Will my fingers reach the trigger? How cold is the muzzle? I shake my head and try to go someplace else, horseback riding perhaps. It's not safe in this room, alone as I am. Why isn't the Seroquel working? But like a television whose channels I can't control, the scene changes back. I've placed myself in the tub to cut down on the mess, and yes, my fingers reach. It's awkward. The pounding in my chest drowns out the screaming of those who don't want to do this. I try again to watch another scene, but the "other" draws me back. Yes, the muzzle is cold. The stress moves to my stomach. I shouldn't be alone....Instead of this passive dreaming I make my legs move me - pee and get some coffee. Instead I find myself by the door, searching behind the jackets hanging there. It's there- cold muzzle and all. I touch it and then there is darkness. Suddenly I'm on my couch, laptop in hand, writing about it instead of doing it in an effort to get it out - out of my head, out of my reality - out of my touch. He comes back from hunting and I'm not alone anymore. I'll tell, because most of me doesn't want it to happen that way. Most of me wants to lay in his arms tonight. Most of me wants to walk with the dog. Most of me fights to live.