The slide racks back with a sound like a held breath, brass sliding into the chamber, cold and sure. One more round — the weight settles into my palm, a small promise of what the night might ask.
The safety clicks off. The world narrows to the trigger, the distance between me and whatever’s coming. I don’t think about the round. I think about the next one.
The desert taught me this: the quiet before is the loudest part. Every sound is a question. Every shadow has a name. I learned to listen for the ones that don’t answer.
Now the night is different. The sounds are softer — a kettle, a clock, the hum of a house that doesn’t know. But the hand still knows. The hand remembers the weight, the click, the cold brass waiting in the dark.
I put in another round. Not because I need it. Because some nights, the only way to sleep is to know exactly where the line is — and to stand just inside it, breathing.
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Author:
ROSHI (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 13th, 2026 14:30
- Comment from author about the poem: It took me some time to write this one. The memories that are fogged and the memories that are still alive sometimes the tears that come out, but I look for the strength and just hope that many people do not have to go through this.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 1
Offline)
Comments1
There is suspense in this write. I thought at first that it was a suicide, then a hunt, then a murder. It is the not knowing that leads to the suspense. It is dark very dark. Black as the night with no vision. Powerful
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