His name was…well, his name’s not important. I never knew him. He was the son of a cousin whom I also didn’t know, but I’m close to his aunt thanks to social media. Early Monday morning he was murdered, shot multiple times, in the still, cold ache of night, and left to die in his driveway. With a suspect in custody, the story will quickly slip out of the public’s domain to oppress those who loved him for eternity. A shot ringing out forever in the dark. A scream of death never ending.
I hate guns. I have never been fond of them, but now I’m done with them. It’s too easy to kill with them. And I’m not talking about how easily they kill; I’m talking about how impersonal, how coldly distant the killing becomes when all it takes is standing 10, 20, 30 feet from the victim, holding up a piece of metal and squeezing one small moving part.
See? Didn’t cost a thing.
You confront someone you’re pissed at, for whatever reason, and if neither of you has a weapon, likely someone’s nose will end up broken, maybe a few ribs as well if the other guy is strong enough. But it’s personal. It’s intimate.
You stab someone with a knife, you can’t help but take a little of their blood with you, still warm from the cooling body. You might even sense the last breath as the soul departs if you can’t get away fast enough.
But pull a gun, and the story’s over. No contact with another human being to remind you that you’re both the same somewhere inside. Just that little squeeze-bang-run.
Yep, I’m done with guns.