Posted on December 17, 2016


“If I had a gun, I’d shoot myself,” I said plainly. My therapist fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair.

“Is that so?”

I nod. “I was hanging out with some friends the other night, and one of them talked about staring at his gun and thinking long and hard about it. I’m pretty sure I would have just grabbed it and put it in my mouth and pulled the trigger.”

My therapist nodded. He seemed deeply perturbed by this revelation. “I see.”

“It makes me feel like an asshole, though. My dad just took me on a road trip, and I got a lot of nice things for my birthday. And yet, I feel this way.”

My therapist nodded yet again, then held up an index finger. He swiveled around in his chair, reaching for the bottom drawer of his desk. After some rummaging, he pulled out a little black box. He dialed in the secret numbers that opened it, and turned it towards me.

There was a gun inside.

I reached over and grabbed it, then set it in my lap; all the while, my therapist watched intently. I stared down at the cold shape, pondering.

“Is it loaded?” I asked simply.

“Why yes it is.”

I finally picked it up, admiring it as if it were a trophy. Then I put the icy barrel in my mouth, my finger wrapping around the trigger.

I squeezed.

The bullet escaped the barrel, puncturing the back of my throat, traveling through muscle, nerve and bone, splattering bloody matter on the wall behind me. I felt it all before I slumped in my chair.

I was dead. But aware of it. I could feel myself slumped in the chair; could hear my therapist chuckle. I could hear him get up, and watched as he grabbed the gun from my dead grasp.

I heard the door open, and the receptionist speak. “Is it done?”

“Yes,” my therapist said. “Hurry and get this one cleaned up so we can get the next appointment here ASAP. We have a long ways to go if we’re to get rid of them all.”

I thought to myself, What have I done?

Posted in: Essays, Stories