purrr
Titan
purrr
purrr
I did it again, pls send help
I held the pistol in my hands.
A classic Glock 17, a rather versatile pistol you'd probably expect to see a lot of during the apocalypse.
Thing is, there are a lot of guns in major cities, and as far as I know, every damn major city in the world died 3 weeks in, and everything else soon after, which leaves a whole lot of the dead roaming around waiting to get a taste of a human fillet.
It's 17 months in, too, which probably adds to there not being a loaded gun within five miles.
Long story short, I still have the Glock, with a clip or two spare in my jean pocket.
It's a very good gun, though.
17 rounds of pure interrupted hell, if you can scrounge up enough (usable) rounds. Although 9mm is one of the most used calibers in the world, it doesn't mean they still keep pumping them out when **** hits the fan.
Low recoil.
Decent range and accuracy.
It's really a survivalist's paradise, considering it really has all the things you need to, <ahem>, not die.
It's really quite a nice gun.
I'm sick of this, though.
I don't want to have the gun anymore.
I don't want to use it.
The demons of their lives always try to grab you and throw you down. You think about who was there— who was there before they turned into what they are.
The family they loved, the job they had, what they liked to do.
It makes you want to just stop and think for a while before you kill it, but you can't, since John Smith doesn't really care for your sentimental crap and just wants a taste of your upper abdomen.
So I hold the gun. Light but powerful, I trace my hands across the edges and lines of the design. It's truly a work of art.
I smile, for once. After all this time, I really thought I had it.
Knew that if I killed myself, I would finally get to be back, experience the life of a normal teenager, with video games, and friends, and (I can't believe I'm saying this) school.
Now I know that won't work.
The demons don't care how you die.
Once you have that gun, the next will find it after.
Then they drag them down too.
But I digress, so I admire the workmanship of the handgun some more.
It's okay if the demons get me. It's fine if they drag me down, and the next too.
It's fine.
I think that being down there would be better than here, anyways.
I lifted the gun. The cold steel of the frame felt comfortable on my hands.
I ****ed the charging handle of the gun. There are no safeties on Glocks— they are military firearms, anyways.
I pointed the barrel to the side of my head.
This time I was not afraid of the demons. They do not scare me. I have seen many more terrors and travesties of the new world that outpace the horrors of hell a million times over.
I glance down at the sheets of the bed. They are a crisp white color. I wish to see that color soon.
But again, I digress.
I squeeze the trigger.
I held the pistol in my hands.
A classic Glock 17, a rather versatile pistol you'd probably expect to see a lot of during the apocalypse.
Thing is, there are a lot of guns in major cities, and as far as I know, every damn major city in the world died 3 weeks in, and everything else soon after, which leaves a whole lot of the dead roaming around waiting to get a taste of a human fillet.
It's 17 months in, too, which probably adds to there not being a loaded gun within five miles.
Long story short, I still have the Glock, with a clip or two spare in my jean pocket.
It's a very good gun, though.
17 rounds of pure interrupted hell, if you can scrounge up enough (usable) rounds. Although 9mm is one of the most used calibers in the world, it doesn't mean they still keep pumping them out when **** hits the fan.
Low recoil.
Decent range and accuracy.
It's really a survivalist's paradise, considering it really has all the things you need to, <ahem>, not die.
It's really quite a nice gun.
I'm sick of this, though.
I don't want to have the gun anymore.
I don't want to use it.
The demons of their lives always try to grab you and throw you down. You think about who was there— who was there before they turned into what they are.
The family they loved, the job they had, what they liked to do.
It makes you want to just stop and think for a while before you kill it, but you can't, since John Smith doesn't really care for your sentimental crap and just wants a taste of your upper abdomen.
So I hold the gun. Light but powerful, I trace my hands across the edges and lines of the design. It's truly a work of art.
I smile, for once. After all this time, I really thought I had it.
Knew that if I killed myself, I would finally get to be back, experience the life of a normal teenager, with video games, and friends, and (I can't believe I'm saying this) school.
Now I know that won't work.
The demons don't care how you die.
Once you have that gun, the next will find it after.
Then they drag them down too.
But I digress, so I admire the workmanship of the handgun some more.
It's okay if the demons get me. It's fine if they drag me down, and the next too.
It's fine.
I think that being down there would be better than here, anyways.
I lifted the gun. The cold steel of the frame felt comfortable on my hands.
I ****ed the charging handle of the gun. There are no safeties on Glocks— they are military firearms, anyways.
I pointed the barrel to the side of my head.
This time I was not afraid of the demons. They do not scare me. I have seen many more terrors and travesties of the new world that outpace the horrors of hell a million times over.
I glance down at the sheets of the bed. They are a crisp white color. I wish to see that color soon.
But again, I digress.
I squeeze the trigger.