TW: Gentle note — this story includes themes of emotional abuse and metaphorical gun imagery. Please take care while reading.

Wiki and the Pedia Searches

I shot a gun today. No. Not a real one.

I was fully loaded. Loaded with everything I’d swallowed for thirty years.

I was curious about it. What a gun really is. In search for a definition, the search engine explained it perfectly. What a gun is. A device. One that propels special projectiles using pressure.

Better described. Explosive force.

That’s a better way to describe it. Explosive. What I shot today.

Everyone says a gun is a weapon of sorts. I’d agree. An explosive weapon that I shot off. With force. Those special projectiles.

It scared me at first. The recoil is the best way I could describe it. The recoil wasn’t mine. It was theirs.

I looked that up, too. Recoil.

The search told me everything I needed to know in its first line. I didn’t need to read past that first line. How it said it. It was true. Kickback. The thrust that happened when I shot it.

Not much a kickback on me. More on them. Recoil. I looked that up.

The definition said that recoil happens rearward. I thought that recoil would hit me. It didn’t.

My buddy told me that the first time a gun goes off, that the ringing in the ears is the hardest part. How the anticipation of it when one would squeeze the trigger. He said that I would close my eyes. I didn’t.

I was curious what the internet called a trigger. I looked that up, too.

The internet when I searched for trigger took longer to find the exact definition to what happened. What I pulled.

I clicked a few more pages. I didn’t know there was something called triggers for the arts. Movies, songs, books and the likes. The creative things. Even reading biographies of people with names of triggers. That was interesting. I read along, realizing I’m somewhat like some of them. But not all.

I kept looking. The best way to describe what I pulled. The trigger. A lever to activate action. That’s the best way to say what happened.

I came up with that definition on my own. It was easiest way to justify my innocence.

The internet told me I am innocent. I looked that up, too. To prove my case. I wasn’t responsible for the wrongdoing.

Yes, I felt bad for what happened. But I don’t carry the guilt of it all happening. Or that I shot it off. It was a reaction. I’m the victim.

I was surprised to see how many films and music have the word victim in them. Maybe there’s so many because thinking about my definition of victim, there’s a lot of people who identify as that.

But I don’t identify with any of the victim definitions. I’m more of a bystander. An observer. A deflector.

That is a safe way to define myself. An observant bystander.

I watch a lot of things happening. Making up back stories. My mind gets curious about who people are behind their pretending. I played pretend a lot as a child. I suppose I still do now. But for other people. Imagining how they sleep and eat. What they are afraid of.

I’m not afraid of a lot of things.

Well, I change my mind on that. I’m afraid of one thing. I play pretend that I’m not. Not much of any worries for anyone to find out what I’m terrified to happen. The make believe horror story I tell myself every morning.

This morning, that make believe story became reality. I thought about it so much, I made it happen. The internet said it’s called a projection. I looked that up, too. While looking that up, the test I took told me some uncomfortable truths. I ignored those.

Ignoring is safe.

Ignoring things, I’m a professional at that. Most days no one notices what I ignore. Other days, well they can be expensive. I know you’re curious. How can it be expensive to ignore something? Short answer, when it demands attention you’re not ready to pay the price for. It can get expensive ignoring things.

The most expensive thing I ignored. That’s how I got here today. Landing myself in front of the screen. Words to ask the internet. To explain. To prove.

So I will know. Understand.

Understanding. They say it’s the beginning of wisdom. I looked that up, too. That definition twisted my mind. I’d sum it up best by saying I know things. Like I know what really happened. But not really knowing why. That’s okay, I’ll make that definition up later.

After I understand more.

More. Or More! A fashion magazine for British women. I looked at the magazine for a good bit. Pretty women. I’d like to be like them. Skinnier. Is beautifuler a word? I will say it is, that makes me smile. I wonder if the models in More! are hungry?

Maybe that’s really what happened. The real reason why. Hungry. The first time I’ve ever done it. Shooting it off like that. I’d been ignoring it the way I ignore most things that demand attention. It demanded attention and I didn’t want to give it. It pushed me, but I’m not a victim. I watched as it happened, their recoil. After I pulled that lever the internet calls a trigger.

But I maintain my innocence through it all. Maybe that’s still me playing pretend. It’s safe to play pretend. It doesn’t hurt anyone. Only some.

The manager, behind the counter, he was asking for a statement. Didn’t much believe me. I only gave him one word when he asked why it happened. The eye witnesses, they did great at giving him all the details. How everything snapped. The way a rubber band doesn’t break so much as gives back a snap when pulled up.

Snapped. That’s the best word for everything going bang. With a loud boom. Loud. I normally whisper when I talk. Not much to raise my voice. Learned not to at a young age. The back of the hand, and my fragile six year old self. I was a fast learner. Whispering is best. Thirty years to stay in the whisper.

All my life I whispered. Whispering kept me safe. Whispering kept the peace. Whispering kept the past from waking up. Whispering is the safest place to play pretend. Whispering request.

I did try to whisper my requests. But I shot a gun instead. When I snapped. It was loud, now that I think about it. I pretended it didn’t matter. But dang it….I was HUNGRY. And my hungry needed foodie.

Today, the first time ever. I pulled the lever. And shot a gun. A projectile of words at force. With many victims. Booming my voice because she couldn’t hear my whisper.

So yes. I shot my gun. And it sounded like this:

“Double cheese with mustard, pickles, onions. Large fries. Large chocolate shake. Chili with sour cream AND WITH onions. To go. And THANK YOU.”

Maybe the boom wasn’t the gun. Maybe it was me.