i just knew something bad would happen the moment my eyes spotted that gun. it had a certain shine, a certain reflectiveness; a fingerprint free gun, is it new or did someone actually take the time to clean it? it just lay there, almost at peace with itself, but causing me distress. i wasn’t there for a shoot out, i was unarmed. i could feel my heart beat against my rib cage. i started to count each beat, attempting to escape the reality of that moment.

i counted two. at least two bullets, i could only see two. the rest, if any, hidden from my view. i wonder if the gun had a safety, and if the owner carried a silencer. for some reason i was more scared by the thought of the gun going off by accident rather than by intent, and more scared of the sound the gun would make rather than the damage it would do.

do bullets have names on them? does a bullet have my name on it? neither of those two did, i’m still here. they were meant for someone else, or maybe just the thin air. but that doesn’t change that moment, it doesn’t change that fear. i can’t help but wonder, with all the ways one can die, that there is a bullet out there with my name on it.