Letter to Sandy


Dear Sandy,

I don’t kill people; you people kill each other. Those are the favorite words of my significant other. So much heated debate, spawned from infuriating crimes inspired by hate. I just shot up a block in the hood but who cares? I’m just another glock in a black teen’s hands who was presumably a thug, probably on some drug, and obviously up to no good. Then I shot up a school, this time commandeered by “mentally deranged” Caucasian hands. A tragic massacre indeed, but it ain’t my fault because I’m just a tool. But maybe you’re just a delusional fool. I know of many a sharp pencil, kitchen knife and other utensils who don’t seem to be abused as I’ve been. Those other guys are yet to be sold legally and illegally to vicious warlords and subsequently gifted to poor African child soldiers and so called rebels by encroaching foreign governments.

You must not understand my pain. I make the last sound the dying hear as they take their last breath of air. And then I’m reloaded and repeated, reloaded and repeated until their screams have been silenced and they lie dead. What’s worse, the one who used and abused me lies just as dead. And all everyone wants to know is what was going on in his Godforsaken head? But the truth is, he died with each shot he fired. After all, cowards die a thousand times before their deaths.

None is more sick of this bloodshed than I am. None is more a victim of his own vices than me. If this is the purpose of my existence, then I might as well cease to exist. But alas, I who can end any life with a single shot cannot end my own. There is no fate more tragic, no punishment more cruel and unusual than to be forced to repeatedly do that which you yourself greatly despise. The sad truth is I have powerful friends with unseen faces in high places with unrelenting agendas who will fight tooth and nail to keep me close. I call them friends for lack of a better term. I mean, what friend would willingly see a friend suffer so? And the irony is that those who would outrageously cry foul and vehemently argue that their freedoms are being taken away when even the faintest talk is made of me being taken away from them have never stopped a moment to consider my own freedom.

I no longer wish to kill, certainly not the innocent, and especially not the children! But for my wishes to be met it’s gonna take more than my will. It’s gonna take more than your skill or lack thereof, pulling my trigger with your index finger. It’s gonna take a multitude of voices of reason, which would be able to exert enough excruciating pressure to shoot me down so that I can finally atone for my long history and ever expanding laundry list of sins. This is your last shot. I pray for your sake and that of future generations of your children, that you place it where it will count – in my heart.

P.S. Bullseye!



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