My entry for round one: action themed with a Beretta. Word count:591
It was the guns. My father was into them, into collecting them. They were his pride and joy. And they were what killed me. I should know; I pulled the trigger myself. A Beretta lay lifeless in my hand as blood poured from my body. Life was too much for me, and I couldn't take it anymore- the teasing, the side remarks, the bullying. I was trapped with no way out, so I had given myself a way out. However, I wasn't expecting what came next. As the gun laid facing my face, staring at my cold eyes, something unexplainable happened. My soul became infused with the gun. Seemed as though I didn't really want to leave the world after all.
~
Every time the trigger was pulled, a bang heard, and a flash of heat felt as the bullet left the chambers I was left burning in agony as if my soul was charring, becoming black. It was hell. It didn't matter who was holding the gun, who was being killed. It was all the same- the jarring of being manhandled, the bouncing along as they raced to their next fight, their next victim.
You'd think it hurt less when it was some criminal, a low life, being killed. But surprisingly it didn't make a difference. Not to me, and not to the gun. A life was a life, and it caused pain every single time. I've lost track to how many owners I've had. Never used to consider myself property until I became a gun, and now I was so far gone I was untraceable. If only I could go back in time, if I had never picked up the gun...
~
A boy, only ten years old, picked up a gun he found lying in an abandoned apartment complex and pocketed it. Hard eyes searched the surrounding as he look for any signs of a threat. He'd had enough of being the punching bag and wanted out.
He began walking the halls, heading towards the exit, when a voice came behind him.
"Where do you think you're going?" yelled a man twice his age.
"Leaving," came the soft voice of the child who refused to look back.
"I didn't say you were free to go," the man snarled from behind him. "You still owe me. Now get over here on your knees, boy, and get to work."
Hearing the man fumble with his pants behind him, he turned around with the gun in his hands. "No," he said as he pulled the trigger and braced for the kickback. He watched the man fall, and he didn't feel happiness or remorse. He was already empty, already dead.
Footsteps and shouting rose in volume through the building after the shot. The boy didn't wait around to be caught; he took off running through the doors and out to the streets, breathing in and out as his feet hammered the pavements. He'd get away, he'd knew he would. He had a plan, an escape.
~
Sitting in an alley surrounded by trash, he held the gun in his dirty hands, placed it to his head and pulled.
~
"Who are you?"
"Gage," a soft voice answered me. "Am I dead?"
"No, but you'll wish you were," I answered. He was only a boy, and if my soul hadn't been burned past breaking point, I might have mourned him, took pity on him. But instead I just stood there watching his dead body as we became covered in his blood.
