Feel Nothing, Lincoln

15

       "From your balcony! Let's do it! You just aim and shoot, there's nothing to it!" He holds the gun and acts out a little scene; pointing the gun out of the window, wildly waving it, and making small "pew pew pew" noises with his mouth. "Quit it, before you actually do fire that gun and get me in trouble for it." He frowns and says 'Okay,' dropping the gun onto the floor (which startles me) and he hangs there, dejected, bobbing up and down. Although I have to admit that I did think about it. What is it like to kill someone? You can watch as many movies, read as many books, and play as many games as you want. Ultimately, however, you'll never really feel it—and that's the word that set me off. You'll never really feel it. Strange how the word hung in my head after all that.

F e e l .

       To take a human life to earn back my own. That's ludicrous, I would never do that. Emotions inhibited or rightfully present, either way, I wouldn't murder somebody. Not for anything. I know that it's wrong, and I know I'd be found and locked up. It's funny... now that I think about it. Am I scared of being locked up? I wish I was scared. Maybe having cops come after me and the guilt weighing on me would do me some good. What settles it is the final comment I hear from Pill-Baby: "Get ready for the excitement of your life." He struggled to raise it off the ground and rest it into my hands. A cold stick of silver, with an antsy metal trigger. I walked out onto the balcony, staring down at the crowd of busy folks crossing roads and hopping busses. In the middle of two fighting parents stands a small girl. The mom holds her arm with force and she is visibly discomforted by it. The dad shouts many belligerent words that I cannot hear. He holds a small empty whiskey bottle, and after the mother says something, he firmly grips the bottle and readies himself to strike. If he aimed for the mother or (what the mother loved most, I'd guess) the child, it wouldn't end up mattering to me. I'm no savior. I just want to try it. "Down with the bastard," Pill-Baby says, following my eyes to the scene below.

       I pull the trigger, and my ears ring. I can't hear, but I can see. People are screaming. People are running. Blood soaks the ground and I head back inside for a glass of wine. "Cheers," I say, clinking my cup against Pill-Baby's. "To justice," he proposes. I repeat back with a small laugh at the irony. "To justice."