The gun is smooth in my hand. This feeling is not unfamiliar. I’ve had a gun since I was thirteen. It feels different now holding it while it is pointed at
somebody. I feel like my momma is going to come around the corner and smack this gun out of my hand and hit me over the head with it . I remember the day I got my gun, I went outside as soon as I
could and fired into the sky. I remember feeling so powerful, watching people far off running away, watching all the pigeons fly away, the car alarms going off. That would make any kid feel
powerful. My momma heard the commotion and took my gun away for a week..
I know I should do what Davonte told me to, block out all of my feelings, become a monster, kill any Bloods who cross Crip turf without a thought. It’s kill or be killed out here. A few seconds have passed since I noticed him. For some reason his back is still turned. I check again for a sign that tells me he is a Blood and it is still there for him it is a red bandanna in his back pocket. I don’t want to see his face as he dies, and I don’t want him to see mine. Plus, it is easier to shoot someone while their back is turned. Only a coward shoots someone who isn’t looking at them, I think. Too late to decide, the blood starts to turn around.
I feel the butt of the gun jump in my hand. The blood lies on the ground face down. I run to my car and break down. I didn’t even know that guy. I based his identity on a red bandanna. That gang isn’t who he is. Don’t we all just want to escape this life, this city, these colors we wear and of our skin that are supposed to define who we are? And yet I just killed a man for those very same reasons. I pray that the lord will forgive me for what I have done. I ask that St Dominic Savio will pray for me.
I drive to Saint Brendan catholic church. I confess everything. I didn’t know what else to do. Afterwards I drive to the police station. I leave a letter that I wrote explaining everything. Then I go home. I just want to die.
I have a knife, a gun, and a bottle of pills on the table I also have on there a bottle of pills with “police” written on it. I put everything in a bag and shake it. I close my eyes and reach in I will let God decide my fate.
I pull my hand out. Clasped tightly in it is the gun. My hand is covered in blood. My thoughts go immediately to the man I killed. Once I shake that thought I realize that my hand must have grazed the knife when I was choosing. Never mind that. I have the gun. So that is how I am to die. I load the gun and walk outside.
It will be better to die this way. Easier to clean up. Easier for my family and everyone else to forget. I think of my family for a minute, especially my momma. How will she react? How will she feel? Will she blame herself? I hope not. I put the pistol in my mouth and shoot.
The cops arrive they realize who I am and remain silent in respect for my momma. Momma looks at my body and breaks down in tears. She prays that I safely entered the gates of heaven.
My funeral was nice. It was obviously a closed casket. The funeral was inside only my family came that is how I would have wanted it. Momma is still crying. Momma has hardly stopped crying since the night I killed myself.
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