My parents had nothing useful for me: 'You are fighting it' they both said from one house to the next. For the first time in a long time, I really wanted to be alone. God and I have a covenant that we won't talk if I'm drunk. Mum and dad sensed it. I lied just to get away as fast as possible. What I said was; I am not going out to get drunk, I just want to think today through. What I meant was; I am not going out to think, I just want to drink today through.
In all fairness, if I have some secret to discover that they know about, they have been lying to me for years. Three drinks in - I had paid for them and they had each found a way to be destroyed before a sip - I was ready to leave. The funniest was an air hockey puck smashing the glass just before I lifted it. I gave in.
I slammed the exit door outwards, smashing both glass windows around it. After also paying for the windows, I tried to leave again.
Outside the door - for the second time - I could smell a funky odour. My mind said it was fear. As I turned to walk, the choked breath of crying caught my ear. I turned to the other direction and saw a shoe attached to a foot sticking out of an alcove. No longer afraid of alleyways, I headed over.
A teenaged guy was sitting in the doorway - his head on his knees - he didn't see me coming. Hello, I said, didn't I see you inside earlier? He responded with some quick scathing spit about my dumb pick-up line. I replied equally scathing, perhaps a little too harsh; he choked in as I describe his mousey stance. As he finally looked me in the eye, his face changed. No longer was there a little boy sitting on the ground, but a young man, at full attention.
He stood and pointed to the bar. I hate that that is the only life I have to hope for, he said. I replied that it wasn't. That was the first time I had been to any gay venue of any kind, and I found it equally disappointing. But that any place is shit if that is how you feel.
We went back inside for a drink. This time none smashed, but the bar tender kept a extra close watch on me.
Four long-island-iced-teas down, Mitchell, was monologuing about his day. The word suicide toppled out as he gulped into his fifth drink. He buttoned the point by revealing the butt of a hand gun from his bag. A gleam came over his eyes like none I have ever seen.
He let the bag drop.
Still holding the gun, he raised it at me. I stepped backward. The remaining five in the bar went suddenly silent.
Without another word, he squeezed the trigger.
The gun sputtered.
The whole bar stood waiting.
Mitchell pointed the gun down and squeezed again. Two shots exploded into the wooden floor.
He raised the gun at me again and squeezed the trigger.
The gun sputtered a second time.
Realising I held a water glass in my hand, I pitched it at Mitchell's head. He went down like a sack of potatoes.
Staring around at the stunned crowd, I could see that not a soul even appeared to be breathing. I grabbed my wallet and walked out:
God was waiting outside to talk to me.
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