On her knees, shaky hands, she loaded her daddy’s pistol the way he taught her when she was eight. She had done it so many times before, but now, in her empty apartment, on her living room floor, she had different intentions for its use. This made each click register a whole new meaning. She was absolutely certain she was meant to die!
She had blocked out everything, and went over this a million times. She was meant for hell. It was just that simple. Why else would so many terrible things have happened? Was she supposed to grow stronger? To hell with that, she could barely handle herself. She was going to hell today.
Her mind was racing a mile a minute. He seemed to be a wonderful guy! So convincingly he talked her into her first drink. She could feel the vodka sting her throat on the way down. By the time it was over she was wasted, and didn’t even noticed he left her on the street alone.
Drunkenly she staggered into an old ally way, and it was there she must have passed out. Some sleazy man was on top of her the next she could remember. She screamed and yelled, and he laughed. No one came to help, not even as he beat her.
She could see his face perfectly, each wrinkle, and his crooked grin with missing teeth. The stench reached her nose again, and she felt his scruffy face. Her hands trembled now more than ever. She lay there that night and bled, with bone-crushing sadness she laid and bled.
She woke again a week later, bound by a hospital bed. No one would talk to her, unless they were trying to get her to talk about that night. She wouldn’t, she wouldn’t dare tell a soul the truth. She was simply ashamed, and terrified of disappointment. Everything was different now. That man stole her identity, and left her with a soul who didn’t deserve eternal life. She shouldn’t be offered heaven.
Two months later and here she was, left all alone in her apartment, and she knew where her daddy hid his pistol. It was intended for safety reasons, however in her twisted mind she saw this to be a very big safety issue. It was safer for everyone, before her insanity reached an all time high. The loaded pistol now rested in her sweaty palms.
It must be done. The gun reached her temple with an unwelcome chill, and with her index finger she applied just enough pressure. POP! It was sharp, intense, and very, very real. Just like that cold dreary night, there she laid, alcohol in her system and bleeding on the floor. She was heading to hell with an unforgivable mistake.
By: Andria Dawn McMillen
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