Bringing a gun into a house changes it. The fear that used to coil in your stomach like writhing vipers has stilled. No need to jump at every squeak and clonk. Now, a strident voice in the street or the sound of smashing windows makes you smile. A slow, secretive smile.
You think it’s power, and the gun feels like it. The slick weight in your hands, the metallic taste of oil at the back of your throat, the imagined whiff of ozone and gunpowder.
Protection. Security. Your life’s better. You almost wish someone would dare; that your faceless tormentors would violate your home. Because things are different, and you’d show them.
And then all your fears and secret hopes become reality; there’s someone in your house, the gun is in your hand and your finger is on the trigger. This is the moment. Your moment. Except the truth of it slices like broken glass on bare feet. This isn’t safety; this is a speeding bullet. And what will you do? Your finger twitches, your thoughts spiral like fractured light. Can you do it? Death.
And now you know. Bringing a gun into the house didn’t change it. It changed you.
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