Last One To See Me Dies

After an agonizing six weeks in the hospital and another three weeks in physical therapy, I was finally back to my (relatively) normal self. According to the doctor who said things backward, I had made a full recovery, but he recommended the physical therapy to be sure. And when I insisted that I go home after the first week of therapy, he leaned close, sternly said, “Doctor’s. Orders.” and walked away. The good news was one, the doctors who treated me said they would pay both my hospital bill and the bill for my therapy, and two, I was finally alone. The only problem was my mom insisted on staying with me for another week to keep an eye on me and see that everything healed correctly. All I needed was one minute alone and it would all be over.

Despite watching me like a hawk, my mom had overlooked when I bought a .50 caliber Desert Eagle. After I bought it once my therapy was over and done with, I immediately hid it under my bed along with the single box of ammunition for it. I couldn’t risk hiding it in my closet because my mom constantly washed all my bed sheets, shirts, and pants, and then put the laundry in my closet for storage.

Once I had a moment of peace, I levitated out my Desert Eagle, loaded the ammunition into the barrel, and cocked the gun. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was the wisp of smoke from the hospital. It lowed under my bed where the box was. Before ending it all, I immediately looked under the bed to find it. My blue mane fell in my eyes, but I could tell that under my bed was…..nothing. The black wisp had simply vanished. I was starting to think if it was just my imagination. I focused on the gun once more as I held it in my mouth. I could taste the cold metal of the barrel with my tongue. The taste of sweet relief. The taste of freedom from the slavery that was my life. I closed my eyes again, sending one last prayer to my grandmare that I would see her soon. Then I pulled the trigger.

Hoping to hear a gunshot, I was both disappointed and confused when all the weapon did was click. Every time I magically pulled the trigger, the gun would go CLICK instead of BANG. I inspected the weapon more closely, hoping to find the source of the problem, and then I found it. Somehow, Impossibly, the gun’s safety had turned on. I did not do that. I clearly remembered using this very gun at the firing range. The safety was never turned on at any moment. So how did it turn on? Either way, I turned the safety back off. Enough distractions! Time to see my grandmare....

Just before I pulled the trigger with my magic, I heard my mom walk in again. “Shadow? Do you want the….WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” Before I realized what was happening, I was tackled to the ground just before I pulled the trigger, causing the bullet to shoot into the wall instead of my head. Damn, I was so close. I tried pointing the gun at my head again, but my mom was the wiser. She knocked the gun out of my magic grip and tossed it across the room. The black smoke returned near the closet before disappearing again. The gun landed on it’s handle and went off!

In a split fraction of a second, I did some very quick math and figured out that the angle and gravity would make it miss my mother’s head by inches. But my luck wasn’t as good as my intelligence. “MOM!” I tried to warn, but was too late. Time returned to normal as I witnessed a bloody hole tear through the back of my mom’s skull! I was instantly splattered with the blood and brains of the pony who loved me my whole life! (Other than my grandmare that is). Her now lifeless body fell on top of me, blood oozing through the bullet hole that had somehow exited her head right between the eyes.

I was frozen in terror. I couldn’t move; my brain told my body to work, but nothing responded. My grandmare had only died, but my mom had just been killed! Killed by the gun I bought. This was my fault. It should’ve been me. It was supposed to be me. My mom didn’t deserve to die, I did. I deserved to die.