THE REVOLVER
A silhouette fell against the cold, still body lying on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding the now lifeless person. The revolver hung in the killers hand, just as cold and motionless. The simple pistol had done its job and had returned to its normal state, empty and emotionless, like the man who carried it. The job of the revolver was not what most assumed. The revolver was a tool of emotion, being used by any who held it. This man, in particular, had used the revolver to exact revenge on the now dead person. No, the revolver was not magic, it was simply the dispenser of will.
Some would use the revolver for protection, holding it close to them but hoping never to use it. Where some would use it to gain materials, money, or even power, wielding the revolver selfishly and without care. Others use it to play judge and jury, occasionally forcing the revolver to act as executioner. However, this is not always malicious or cruel, pending on the wielder and the perpetrator. The revolver felt no affection when the attempted rapist was shot through the hand...it didn't stop the bullet from traveling through his face though. Then again, the revolver has felt regret and guilt for being used against innocence. It jammed on the occasion of a poor girl being caught in a dark alley, the choice sealing the girls fate to a bloody, and battered end. From then on, the revolver made the innocents caught in the crossfire die with quick and painless deaths, to spare them that one unfortunate cruelty.
The revolver had been owned by many, never forgetting the experiences from each wielder. The first was a young woman who purchased the gun for self defense, carrying it in her purse wherever she went. The revolver missed those days, the days of rest and relaxation, before the blood and restless nights. After the woman fended off the attempted rapist, she pawned the gun, hoping to forget the experience all together.
After a short time of boredom and dust collecting, a young man picked up the revolver, robbing the very store where it had been housed. The spree of greed and power continued for some time until the young man made a fatal mistake. An innocent store clerk was killed in one of the robberies, an act for which his beloved gang was not so forgiving about. The revolver then swapped hands over and over, always amongst the fiends, always hurting and robbing.
After what seemed like an eternity of bloodshed and violence, the revolver was swept up by an angry citizen, a man looking for vengeance upon the very group the pistol had been harbored. This time, the killing was different, it was understood and directed, a purposeful act. Now, the pair stood together over the last remaining member of that gang, eliminating the very threat that had robbed the gruff, cold man so long ago. The revolver was satisfied with this outcome but unsure of what the future held for the pair. With no threat, there was no purpose, no reason to carry the revolver.
Now, on the pier facing the water, the revolver knew the answer. This was the end. I could tell by the way the rough man handled it, different from all the previous times. This, was a caring touch, one of fondness and emotion. Tears fell upon the grip and barrel, soothing each of their hearts. "Thank you," the man whispered. "Now, we can both sleep."
The revolver sank into the cold, murky waters, no longer wielded by anyone but the grip of the frigid waters. There, on the bottom floor of the dark depths, the revolver slept. It had earned this rest, as had its last wielder. Both would drown their seconds, and sleep.
A silhouette fell against the cold, still body lying on the floor, a pool of blood surrounding the now lifeless person. The revolver hung in the killers hand, just as cold and motionless. The simple pistol had done its job and had returned to its normal state, empty and emotionless, like the man who carried it. The job of the revolver was not what most assumed. The revolver was a tool of emotion, being used by any who held it. This man, in particular, had used the revolver to exact revenge on the now dead person. No, the revolver was not magic, it was simply the dispenser of will.
Some would use the revolver for protection, holding it close to them but hoping never to use it. Where some would use it to gain materials, money, or even power, wielding the revolver selfishly and without care. Others use it to play judge and jury, occasionally forcing the revolver to act as executioner. However, this is not always malicious or cruel, pending on the wielder and the perpetrator. The revolver felt no affection when the attempted rapist was shot through the hand...it didn't stop the bullet from traveling through his face though. Then again, the revolver has felt regret and guilt for being used against innocence. It jammed on the occasion of a poor girl being caught in a dark alley, the choice sealing the girls fate to a bloody, and battered end. From then on, the revolver made the innocents caught in the crossfire die with quick and painless deaths, to spare them that one unfortunate cruelty.
The revolver had been owned by many, never forgetting the experiences from each wielder. The first was a young woman who purchased the gun for self defense, carrying it in her purse wherever she went. The revolver missed those days, the days of rest and relaxation, before the blood and restless nights. After the woman fended off the attempted rapist, she pawned the gun, hoping to forget the experience all together.
After a short time of boredom and dust collecting, a young man picked up the revolver, robbing the very store where it had been housed. The spree of greed and power continued for some time until the young man made a fatal mistake. An innocent store clerk was killed in one of the robberies, an act for which his beloved gang was not so forgiving about. The revolver then swapped hands over and over, always amongst the fiends, always hurting and robbing.
After what seemed like an eternity of bloodshed and violence, the revolver was swept up by an angry citizen, a man looking for vengeance upon the very group the pistol had been harbored. This time, the killing was different, it was understood and directed, a purposeful act. Now, the pair stood together over the last remaining member of that gang, eliminating the very threat that had robbed the gruff, cold man so long ago. The revolver was satisfied with this outcome but unsure of what the future held for the pair. With no threat, there was no purpose, no reason to carry the revolver.
Now, on the pier facing the water, the revolver knew the answer. This was the end. I could tell by the way the rough man handled it, different from all the previous times. This, was a caring touch, one of fondness and emotion. Tears fell upon the grip and barrel, soothing each of their hearts. "Thank you," the man whispered. "Now, we can both sleep."
The revolver sank into the cold, murky waters, no longer wielded by anyone but the grip of the frigid waters. There, on the bottom floor of the dark depths, the revolver slept. It had earned this rest, as had its last wielder. Both would drown their seconds, and sleep.