The $20 Dollar Pistol

This city stinks.

Or maybe it is me that stinks, I’m not sure which.

I came here with such high hopes but that has all been smashed, gone when they sold the company I worked for out from under me.

The condo got repo’ed last week. Becky and the baby moved back to Seattle with her folks. We fought a lot before she did that.

There’s no hope, no future. I’ve only got $20 to my name.

I’m scared.

Everything’s gone.

Everyone’s gone.

I can see my reflection in the pawn shop showcase mirror. I am beyond shabby. I am beyond redemption.

I finally decide and that decision fills me with sadness.

“I’ll take the .22 pistol,” I say, “and a box of shells.”

It costs me $19 total. I drop my last dollar into a sidewalk panhandler’s hat.

Turning into an alley, I walk some distance, stop and sit down behind a dumpster.

I load the .22 with 5 bullets and pull back the hammer.

A voice says, “Are you sure you really want to do that?”

I look toward its source.

Well, what do you know?

Angels really do have wings.

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