[ WP ] Satan prevents a suicide .

Is it the hand or the gun? 
 
 
 I ’ ve always wondered which of the two had the power. 
 Sometimes I like to think of myself as a scientist. I ’ m a scientist of human reaction. I ’ m pretty sure real academic scientists would study a human ’ s reaction to a gun in their face if they could. I mean, they cut animals up. I ’ m pretty much doing what they wish they could. I ’ m curious by nature; I always have been. 
 
 
 I learned about the progression of fear pretty early. Animals have it. There is hesitation, caution trust, panic in their capture, wild fear, and then nothing. The wild reaction of life turns into a blank stare of death so quickly. It ’ s amazing. Being the inquisitive man I am, I had to know the difference in how people react. For months I researched, and I found that it really depends on the person. Sometimes the pattern isn ’ t that different from a dog or a cat ’ s, other times there is a rapid fire of emotions in their face when they know they are going to die. I love the surprise of it. 
 
 
 I always wondered though, is it me or the gun? Which of us holds the power? I could kill them with my hands, and that would be only me, but there is something in their face when they see the heavy metal of the gun. It is symbolic in a way that I can never be. 
 
 
 I know I probably drink too much, but it is the only way I can quiet everything that is going on in my head. I think it has to do with the fact that I capture information so easily. That ’ s why I never went to college; there is no way they can teach me something I don ’ t already know. I like the phrase “ Ignorance is bliss. ” People just don ’ t know how lucky they have it. Anyways, the alcohol helps. 
 
 
 I was drinking the night I decided to see once and for all which one of us had the power. I ’ ll admit, I probably had a little too much. I remember sitting in my room wishing the snow would stop. People don ’ t go out to be killed during snow storms, and I can ’ t see if there are new ways people can die. Like my brain does, it got to thinking that there was a way for me to see if the gun had the power. I think I looked down at it for a long time trying to be afraid of it. Nothing happened. I was winning. I held it up to my head. Still no fear. There was a full-length mirror propped against the wall, and I walked over to it so I could watch my own eyes. The alcohol weighed down my lined eyelid and gravity pulled at the loose skin of my cheeks. Looking at myself with only a snow-blurred streetlight hitting half of my face made the line look deeper. In all the things I saw in the mirror, I didn ’ t see fear. So I pulled back the hammer. Nothing still. Finally, when I put my fingertip against the familiar place on the trigger, I saw a flash of something. 
 
 
 That was the last thing I remember until I woke up on the thin, stained carpet in a pool of every imaginable type of fluid that could come out of me. I was stone sober, and the clarity told me I was not alone. There was a rattling sound that bounced in echo around my small room. It was a sound I remember from my youth. It was the sound of the phlegm-filled breath of my grandmother right before she died. This rattle was layered though, as if it was there were a thousand snot-choked breaths. 
 
 I couldn ’ t move when I felt it rub against my body. Everywhere it touched felt as if it had been pressed against ice for too long. Somewhere in my mind I wondered what would happen if most of my body got frostbite. Where its grip was cold, its breath was hot. It was like the blast of air from an opened sewage manhole – putrid. 
 
 
 “ I neeeed you. I want you. ” Its voice was the pop of a fire over a tunnel of muffled screaming. 
 
 
 And then it was all gone, and I could move again. I know I went through my own series of reactions in response to thinking I was going to die there in my own mess. I have seen the variations enough to feel it on my own face, but the experience was a real eye opener. 
 
 
 That was a week ago, and I still feel like whatever that was is still hiding somewhere around me. The snow started melting this morning, so I am cleaning up the old gun and going out. Wondering where the power was between me or the gun seems so silly now. 
 
 
 I ’ ll tell you what though, there is something so nice about feeling wanted. 

