Trigger

The gun is fixed on me.

Trigger ready,

shot ready.

The finger locks around the trigger.

I beg.

The gun

aimed,

ready to fire.

With only my voice

between myself and the bullet.

Weak, rambling,

begging.

But who am I begging?

Only the gun

and the hand

are present.

Black darkness

fills the empty spaces

not shown reached by the

small hanging light.

Weak crys,

pounding heartbeat,

fill my ears.

The person moves forward,

illuminated by the dim light.

I cry out

horrified of who stands

before me.

Tall,

brown haired,

expressionless.

The person is me.

Twisted and mutated version of me.

The version of me in my mind.

Lips quivering,

eye’s wild,

blood covered.

please,

Please,

PLEASE!!

I beg.

Laughter escapes her lips,

a crooked smile appears,

showing what I was once was.

Bang.

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