Len Woods was being chased by a thing with more teeth than a shark but it walked on two legs. He knew it was a nightmare, his anxieties always tortured him when his eyes closed. But after weeks of this, he was ready to fight back. Before he slept, he envisioned a gun, modeled after his fathers Hk 45. He drew it out, pictured it's weight in his hand. He knew it would never run out of bullets and when it fired, there would be no kickback. He pictured each bullet being directed by his will, the gun an extension of his soul. When the sharp-toothed beast came after him in the house where he grew up, the blood of his dead father dripping from its gaping maw, instead of running, this time he stood his ground. He could smell it, blood and sweat mixed with chlorinated water, like when he got a nosebleed in the pool in high school and people called him ragface. And he felt the gun. The weight felt right. Pure and powerful. With the monster in his face, he pulled the trigger four times, each bullet carrying a bit of his fear with them . The first shot was when he was caught with a hard on by his neighbor, a painful memory that haunted him whenever he got naked with a girl. The second one was the fear as he sped to his father's house, knowing he was too late and that his dad was dead, lying on the bathroom floor, covered in a sheet he'd grabbed from a hamper. The third was the anger he'd felt when his girlfriend told him she was leaving, even though he'd done his best to drive her away by being a selfish asshole. She was crying and he couldn't be bothered to feel anything but betrayal. The last shot was all the pain he'd felt eating away as he'd blamed it on himself. The inability to forgive himself or anyone else and the toxic mess that burned inside him. The shark mouthed thing never stood a chance. The bullets vaporized it, turning it into a red cloud of bloody dust. Then Len woke up. And the gun was still in his hand. Glowing.
- posted by Paul @ 8:25 PM