Point me my gun

I possess a gun.

The gun that I held onto for my survival against the biting cruelty.
It's a bluff, however�" the gun. A bluff I keep on display, to keep you in fear and rationally obey my orders instead of you following your drive of unreasonable emotions that lead to my destruction. I knew how to hold the gun. To use the gun.

It's a bluff; because I can never pull the trigger. The chain of obeying instead of being obeyed; the heavy anchor thrown beneath the ship to hold it in place; the thick rope around my neck that will tighten, that will completely cut off my breathing if I make a single simple small mistake, knocking off the chair beneath my feet. I can't pull the trigger.

I forgave you in so many ways.
You ruin my life in so many ways.
That's enough.
So I pointed the gun at you.
The ghost of my index fingertip, dancing at the trigger of my weapon. In just a simple pull, all will end, and new will begin.

The finger trembles, how it is in the battle against itself; afraid to kill, but desperate�" so, so desperate�" to get rid of you.

When will you behave?

The weight of dread multiplied, the overwhelming pressure, sinking my fragile body deeper below the dense, dirty mud; permanently stains my skin and locks away the ability to freely breathe fresh air above.

The familiarity of eyes staring back at my glare. The unremarkable plump, bruised lips that sting when stretched to smile. The arched eyebrows that portrayed itself as unapproachable, even if thoughts meant the opposite. Those round cheeks are dusted in dots and imperfections that make it unique. And a single dimple on the right cheek.

An unfathomable expression. But a comprehensible motive.

The face that I have been familiar with the most; the face I vehemently both loved and despised.

...I know you only wanted to be released. After being locked away and repressed.

How can I blame you if I knowingly am the suspect? How can I pull the trigger if the consecutive beads of tears drifting below my cheeks are caused by the guilt of imprisoning the neglected because they proved I unreasonably deserved so? How can I free myself from the cage I implemented myself? How can I open the gate using the key I held at the mercy of my hands?

How can I free myself if I don't have the will to?

There's someone in front of me�" her glare sending daggers to the roots of my soul, shivering from the sight of trembling hands. The rim of her eyes are pink and her runny nose perceptible, a sign of hours of crying. I know she doesn't mean to hurt. So I smile. For reassurance. She points a gun at me, uttering the words I heard more than what I can comprehend.

That's enough.

Author's Note

What do I need to improve guys

Reviews

[Efxaris Arampatzi]

The metaphor of the gun as internal conflict is striking! I loved the line "The ghost of my index fingertip, dancing at the trigger of my weapon," as it vividly portrays that inner struggle. The mix of despair and yearning for release is powerful. The ending, with the gun pointed back at the speaker, ties the theme of self-reflection beautifully. You've done a wonderful job!