Finger guns are often used for comic relief. “Bang bang.”
My raygun is deadly serious. I have pointed my attention at or towards your warm and rapidly beating heart. I am poised to join or destroy us both. If I fire my raygun and you die. If I survive, I will continue to seek for someone like you. The “we” of us dies in both of those events. I am unclear about my strategy or plans. I am present with you here and now. The raygun isn’t even charged up. It’s a prop.
My raygun is often put away, unnecessary. Something today required my raygun.
If you don’t stop talking…
Wait… I know… Wait…
Can you pause? Hear me out? Wait!
Oh, now I’m yelling at you? I have no options. I’m prostrate on the floor of your house, so I don’t dominate. I’m modulating the volume and tone of my voice to lower the potency. I’m listening. I’m not hearing your attack anymore. I can’t hear what you’re saying. I’m not the issue that has you so shut down. So angry. Afraid. My raygun is not the issue. It’s what’s underneath, that’s the issue. And not meant for me, I’m afraid.
This other, this incessant, release and expulsion. I’m getting swept out with the detritus. The trash you are flushing from your veins is taking me with it. I’m sorry. I can’t stand in for this one.
“You always leave.”
“I have to leave. It’s your fucking house. I have my own place. My own life. I can’t just be in a suitcase here.”
(Withdraws raygun from woman’s temple.)
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