For the Love of Life - JohnD

Prompt: Write a confession of an inanimate object - 02/21/09

I love life. I do. So painful for me, then, not to be alive, such a horrible fate. I love humanity, too, how humans can control their surroundings. I so admire their work, which is great because I am their work. I’m a Beretta 9mm.

I am constructed beautifully: my weight and form are magnificent. So many humans are in awe of me. And yet, humans themselves forged me with materials taken right from the earth. My design is truly inspiring. How nicely I fit the human hand and how good I feel when humans hold me.

There are bullets, of course. I am designed to bring out all the power that they have hidden within. I do this quite well. I’m proud of it. I’m sorry to say that, but it’s true. I’ve always been so proud of my ability to unleash every bit of energy stored in a little bullet. Yes, when I team up with bullets, we are a force that humans hold in high regard. We are respected, but feared, too. I enjoy the respect that humans give me because I think so highly of them. I want them to respect me and like me. And some really, really like me.

I’ve been fired many times. My owner, Thomas, brings me to the firing range almost every week. He has other guns, too, but I am his favorite. I love that. I’d do anything for Thomas. I love him.

Last night, he took me out in the middle of the night. Something was wrong. He was in a panic. It was all quite unusual. I didn’t understand what was happening. It didn’t make sense. Somebody was trying to enter his house through the back door. Thomas crept carefully into the living room. He was grasping me tightly.

Suddenly the intruder was in the house. How did he get in so easily. “Halt!” Thomas yelled.

The intruder had a gun, too. Thomas raised me and pulled my trigger. I hesitated. I’d never shot a living thing before, especially a human. I love humans. It seemed like some sort of mistake. I know it’s my job to fire when my trigger is pulled, but I couldn’t do it. It would kill the intruder. And after all, he was a human being.

Then the intruder fired. His gun did not hesitate. His gun was a good soldier and did as ordered. His gun was not weak like me. His gun fired again and again. Thomas pulled my trigger again. This time I fired. He pulled again and again and I fired again and again. Bullets were flying through the air, mostly missing, but not all the bullets missed. I fell to the floor.

Now, here I lie. It’s morning, two human bodies and two guns lying on the floor. If I’d done my job right, it would only be one body and one gun, and it wouldn’t be Thomas and me. But I failed. I didn’t do my job. I love human life. That’s my excuse, my only excuse, no matter how faulty, no matter how disastrous. I’m sorry, I hope I can be forgiven.