The Gun

Imagine a gun. You don’t have to imagine it, it’s right here in the kitchen, lying on the counter, painfully naked and exposed beneath the dying golden light of the setting sun. The gun looks brand new; black, shiny, unscathed - a classic Smith & Wesson build, almost too perfect. The magazine, full of bullets, lays next to it. You don’t really know where it came from or how it got there, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, and you reach forward to wrap your fingers around the handle. As you lift it off the marbled surface of the counter you revel in the comfortable weight of it in your hand, and it fascinates you to no end. Your finger brushes against the trigger, gently, tentatively. Slowly and deliberately, your grip closes more firmly and you raise it to eye level, the barrel pointed squarely at a framed picture of your parents on the opposite side of the room. It’s well-balanced. You think you might shoot some cans and bottles out on the porch the next day. This is a handgun, but you also have a sawed-off shotgun in the shed, and a semi-automatic rifle hanging above the mantelpiece in your living room, like it’s your most prized possession. Occasionally, you go game-hunting; you think of it as a rewarding and stress-relieving activity.

Imagine a school. Now imagine a gun. Both of these things are real but you happen to be in the presence of only one of them. Put yourself in a different room - that’s what the mind is for. You are now sitting at a desk in a stuffy classroom; there’s no air circulation and students complain about it daily. Everyone’s copying notes from the board as the teacher sits off to the side, fidgeting in her chair, waiting for the class to finish up. Your best friend, who sits behind you, has just sent you a text that asks if you want to make plans for after school. You go to unlock your phone, and that’s when you hear them - the gunshots. A few short moments pass before there’s muffled screaming outside, maybe in the hallway or in a different room. Every single person in the class has stiffened up and now stares apprehensively at the one and only entrance as one of their worst fears claws its way out of the dark corners of their minds and finds itself just outside the door. The shooter kicks in the door, which hadn’t been locked, and a few of your classmates cry out in terror as he swings the muzzle of his rifle around. You catch a whiff of gunpowder as you spot a narrow escape route.

Should you abandon your classmates, your best friend, and flee? Should you grab your friend and possibly cause more commotion, putting yourself and everyone else at risk? After all, you’re closer to the door, you have a better chance of survival. How long does it take to decide?

Imagine a pack of four stray dogs. The troubled high school kids you’ve been hanging out with lately have cornered the poor creatures, quivering with terror. Their fur is in patches and you could probably count all their ribs if you tried. One kid pulls a Beretta 92 out of the waistband of his jeans, his laugh ringing off the walls of the alley as he aims the gun at the dogs. He’s fifteen and he bought it himself, which he was quite proud of. The others always poke fun at how he got his hands on a handgun but couldn’t sneak into an 18A movie. You hang behind, peering over heads, as the kids throw rocks and pieces of glass at the whimpering mutts. The boy with the weapon tightens his finger on the trigger. He does not aim for their heads or hearts. Your stomach heaves and you try not to throw up as one of the dogs cry. The gun is subversive, it’s treacherous, it means pain. You know this.

There was once a ruler. A great ruler, some said, but most just turned their heads and sneered. They were aware of the reality: he was unfair, cruel, manipulative, and responsible for hundreds of deaths. Townspeople begged and cried and pleaded that he protect their friends and family, their children, but he merely lifted his chin, offered his orange baby hands, and loudly claimed that “global warming is a hoax!” He sat upon his satin-lined throne and yawned as people perished at the hands of firearm-wielding individuals. “Just give them more guns,” he said nonchalantly, patting down his toupee. The citizens were outraged. But they could only look on as their demands were brushed away like a layer of dust. Everyone knew what that meant.

The pistol I’ve conjured for you now floats about a foot above your kitchen table. The table is normal, there are no trap doors in it. The magazine is now inside the gun instead of on the counter and there are no strings attaching the ceiling to the gun or the gun to the table - you’ve proved it by passing your hand above and below. You didn’t touch the gun, though. What stopped you? You don’t want to know whether the weapon is real or whether it’s just a hallucination I’ve somehow duped you into seeing. There’s no doubt that you can see the gun - it looks solid enough, solid as your own arm. But can you trust it? Can you trust yourself? The Smith & Wesson swivels around until you’re staring down the barrel, and you decide you don’t want to know.

Imagine that.