Chekhov's Gun

Have you ever heard of Chekhov’s gun? It’s a dramatic principle that states that every element in a story must be necessary, and irrelevant elements should be removed; elements should not appear to make “false promises” by never coming into play. Well, I once held Chekhov’s gun in my hands.

You see, I’d hate to say this, but I was a terrible person. It all started during my childhood when my grandfather was dying from cancer and I did not give a shit. I didn’t care as much as I should have. I felt nothing at the sight of the husk that used to be my loving grandparent. Then came my aunt’s alcoholism-induced liver cancer? She didn’t even hit fifty. And at her funeral? If it weren’t for the wind, I would not even have shed a single tear.

Of course, I told everyone I was sad.

Of course, I told everyone I was aching.

In reality, I did not feel a single thing. Soon after, the draft came along, and I learned that my finger was rather light on the trigger.

Everyone praised the killing machine I have become for my ruthless cold-heartedness in times of need.

I kept children at gunpoint, and it did not bother me in the slightest.

I’ve tortured innocent souls to fill my pockets, and it didn’t bother me in the slightest.

I had snapped the necks and cracked the skulls of those young children whenever I deemed it too cruel for them to keep on living and I call it justice.

I felt good about exerting a lethal force on the helpless that I came to view as hopeless.

I came to view myself as a god for a while; I was so caught up in the sadistic charade I’ve failed to notice how I hurt those around me. I was so blind I had failed to notice I was knee deep in bodies.

Three months ago, was the first time I’ve looked into a mirror in ages, and the sight horrified me. Instead of my reflection stood a terrible apparition resembling my form. The beast in front of me was covered in blood from head to toe and it was smiling from ear to ear. Within its maw stood rows upon rows of jagged dog-like teeth ready to tear into anyone, into anything. The thing stared straight at me.

And for the first time in a long time, I’ve felt pain, because I realized that the beast in front of me was what I came to be. The pain was so intense it shook me to the bone.

It burned through my muscles.

It boiled my blood inside my veins.

I collapsed to the floor in a crying fit.

I couldn’t even handle the sight of my bloody face in the mirror. As I was lying there, sobbing, a thousand cracking voices roared in my head, screaming at me to end my misery.

It hurt so much that I couldn’t resist the voices.

I’m not sure I even controlled my body, everything was so blurred out I couldn’t feel myself walk to my room. I couldn’t see straight, everything was so shaky and the house spun around me like the whirlwind of agony that consumed my mind.

Everything turned so dark at a certain point that I’ve lost track of everything.

Once I came to, I was standing face to face with the mirror again, holding my gun to my temple.

I was standing face to face with the monster once again.

It was holding a gun to its head, but unlike me, it smiled that maddening smile.

A smile that sent a familiar rage coursing through my body that same murderous anger I felt each time I shed the blood of the defenseless.

I turned my gun to the mirror and pulled the trigger.

With a thunderous crack the glass shattered and with it a rain of blood came upon me, showering me from within the mirror, along with skull and brain matter splashing right in my face.

The beast wailed in agony with the remainder of it's head as it tried to gasp for one last breath before fading away.

It hurt, it hurt me the most; it hurt me the most I’ve ever hurt.

It hurt me not because shards of glass flew into my face and cut it open, no…

It hurt me because I’ve come to realize that in actuality; I had always felt the pain but I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I bottled it all up inside.

And at this moment this pain, all of this trauma, everything, it was bubbling to the surface.

It birthed a monster within me.

So, I took my gun, and I shot the monster, dead on the spot.

Now I know what just how bad it hurts when you don’t acknowledge the fact that you’re hurting.

Please, do not bottle your pain inside, it will just make you into a shell for a disfigured, misshapen beast.

Please, do not get to the point where you have to hold up a gun straight to your face.

Not everyone can overcome the realization…

Trust me, you do not want to know just how bad it hurts when a bullet grazes your head and takes away a piece of your skull.