Occiditur

Guns for Hands

I am one hundred percent convinced that there is no greater terror than being responsible for violence.

"Oh and Mick, get some sleep. You sound terrible. I'll be up there in the morning." I told my drunken friend. But he had hung up on me before I could finish. I sighed and put down the receiver.

I picked my pencil back up and continued to edit the song Peter and I had written several weeks earlier. I marked and slashed through all the parts I thought should be changed. So basically anything written by my associate.

I couldn't focus though. I kept thinking of Micky in that house by himself. I thought about how stoned he was and how he was capable of anything. My mind flipped through scenarios where awful things happened to my lonely friend.

A sick feeling bubbled and boiled in my stomach and rose to an overpowering high. I threw down my pencil and leaned back in my chair, covering my face with my hands. Calm resolve flushed upward through me. And then suddenly a mix of dread, fear, and panic, exploded within me. I sat straight up with a gasp. The stab of emotion overtook me.

What was it?

I don't think I could explain it to you without sounding like an idiot.

But have you ever been stuck thinking about a certain person; a friend or family member, and then a few days later you find out that that person had experienced something awful or amazing, and you knew you had felt it along with them? This was one of those times.

I couldn't shake Micky from my mind and decided that I was going to drive up there and check on him. I resolved to call first though. I picked up the receiver and dialed my friend's number. It rang on and on. I willed for Micky to pick up. To answer me with a drunken slur, but no. He didn't. I was worried beyond comprehension by now. I called Peter.

"Hey man, it's Mike." I said.

"Mike?" Peter asked surprised.

"I think Micky's in trouble." I rushed.

"Trouble? What kind of trouble?" Peter had sounded annoyed at first, but now he seemed concerned.

"He just called me up drunk and told me that he was saying 'goodbye', and I just tried to call him back again and he didn't answer."

"I'm on my way!" Peter hung up. I assumed that he was going to the country house, so I stood up and ran out of my office. "Christian come on! We need to go check on Uncle Micky." I yelled down the hall. My son walked into the front room and I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the car.

"Dad, what's going on?" Chris asked me.

"I don't know." I sighed as I sped out of the driveway and pulled recklessly into the street.

I reached the white house just behind Peter. Pete had called Davy. Davy had arrived first. The two were banging on the front door vigorously yet in vain. I parked the car and told Christian to stay inside it. I ran to the door and joined my colleges.

"What's the news?" I asked, winded.

"None!" Davy said frustrated. "He didn't answer the phone, his car's still here so he's got to be inside."

"But he's not coming to the door either." Peter informed me.

I ran my hands through my hair, and let go of the breath I'd been holding.