Bearing Gun

I look at my reflection in the mirror, and I don’t like what I see. I grew old, and life passed without me realizing it. I met people, all of them passers-by, women, and friends. They left nothing but sad memories and a few happy ones. Unfulfilled loves and friends who sold me out.

I look at the gun in my hands. I have never used it. I keep it for protection, dangerous times we live in. The people I meet look greedily, with malice, with hatred, as if they wish me harm. Sometimes I want to use the gun on them, but there I will commit a crime, a sin, and I will pay.

I have no choice but to put up with it. I tolerate people who show their teeth in a fake smile and bite as soon as they can. I tolerate them, and I wear out psychologically. I can’t stand them.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. How did I become like this? I was once young, lively, and full of hope and desire. Joy, expectation, I rejoiced and loved my people. Now only loathing has taken root deep within me. My heart has grown cold. How has my life become like this? I look at my reflection in the mirror, and I aim. Bam.

The mirror broke with thousand broken glasses. I look at the gun. It makes noise. Like so many people in my life did, fake promises and fake hugs. They are gone like the night, the cold wind that, with the dawn, leaves with ugly tormenting thoughts. Again, from the beginning, day by day, I fight, I search. I am looking for the people I loved so much, who are no longer there. With the passage of time, they have changed. What I loved does not exist anymore. I will not find it. It passed, and I wonder. Where did it all go?

I look at the crumbs. I am no longer young, full of life. I got old, and I became bitter. How did my life become this way? I ask again and again. I joined the game with the others. To bite, too, to hurt. A real smile is not painted on my face, and it takes a long time to appear. Only hypocrisy. That’s all that’s left. That’s how the whole day goes, with lies. Deep inside, I wonder where this pleasant young man went, who loved, wished, and hoped. Where did he go? I stare down at the barrel of the gun. Bam.

Created by Diana Chemeris

Story in Greek:

Δημοσιεύτηκε από τον dianachem

Fairy Tales May Be Real


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