I want to write about that gun. The gun on Ryan’s headboard. Can you believe I can remember his name? I can’t. I didn’t remember most of them, not even their faces.
I remember his name because he was a more-than-once. Maybe it was the gun that kept calling me back, maybe it was the mess of toxic delicious bullshit that Ryan fed me that brought me oblivion.
In any case, my oblivion could not shake my obsession with that fucking gun. “It is loaded,” he told me before he passed out. It was on the ledge just above my head. Just. Above. My. Head.
It would only take a second to pull that gun down from the ledge and put it to my pretty, painted face. I wonder if I would die right away, or if it would take me two shots like that one guy I had heard about.
Should I do it? I can’t sleep. This time it would be for real. No more half-assed teenage charcoal attempts.
Still contemplating my gun decision when a knock at the door broke my thought.
Mom. My mother had found me again. Was D with her? I suppose this is a better situation in which to find me than that fucking hotel after the Tikki Bob’s bartender did whatever he did as I lie half conscious.
I suppose it is better than a hair and a nose and a mouth and a face full of activated charcoal at St. Mary’s.
This one is better than if she had walked in to her 20-year-old daughter’s head splattered on the wall. That is much more to clean up than these clothes on the floor.
Let’s go home. Let’s have a chat about my drinking and my choices and my emptiness and my lack of direction. Let’s call them what they are. Let’s name them: Alcoholism. Addiction. More, more more.
But, let’s never talk about that gun.
I love peanut butter and pink and polka dots.