I am the spurned lover
I am the spurned lover. Our love was strong until the day he thought I knew too much about him. Too much to be a danger. Then he spurned me. Washed his hands off me, as if I was some dirt that had settled on his skin without his consent. But I knew he loved me and still think he does. Had he found a better replacement to me? Something he could use to better effect. No I don’t think it’s that. I know how much he trusted me. He used to take me with him everywhere. He picked me a virgin over others more experienced. He thought I would never falter and I loved his faith in me. I wish I could complain like a woman but I cannot. I am considered inanimate. A non-living thing. Period. Still wondering who I am? I am the revolver, the butt of which he had used to crack the young man’s skull. Anyways, so much by way of my introduction. How does it matter from where I lie, that question of what I was?
I don’t know how long will I remain here. I won’t complain about the smell here. After all I am not supposed to be smelling, inanimate as I am you will say. And you know how a drain should smell even if you were sensitive enough to think I could smell, so I won’t go into that. But it does feel bad to lie neglected here. Neglected after having been the prized possession of a man. He has been my only master. I can still feel the warmth of his hands as he took me out from his drawers to strap me against his waist each time he went out. Well, I have been triggered just once by him. The time he fired a test shot in the air when he bought me from my maker. To be honest with you I have never triggered a blood shot. Now that may make me an object of ridicule among my fellows but I am like that. Somehow I like to be quiet. I just like to feel possessed, just like any object of man’s invention.
I know you will all laugh at me if I said this, but I do abhor violence. You will all accuse me of being the dispenser. But do understand I am really not like the others. I do abhor violence and it pains me to hear stories of people killing each other with gunshots. Here some of my fellows take pride in the number of bloodshot they have been part of. It’s much like the men bragging about the number of women they have slept with. But I am really not like them. After all I am just the modern prototype of the bow and our chief function is to give direction. But why must it always be a missile, a poisoned arrow or a lead bullet? Why cant it the missile be love like in cupids bow. I would love to dispense a missile of love. I would shoot my master first. But then if they only feed me with lead bullets I can’t help it. Men haven’t been imaginative enough to think of any other missile, that’s my biggest complaint. When they do you can be sure ill give them direction like the way I will always be doing and you will understand me better. Perhaps ill even transform from a symbol of violence to a symbol of love.
See that thought has hope. It’s begun to rain now. A welcome relief it is. I hope this drain fills and begins to flow and I am swept from here to some outlet, where someone may just find me. That’s the only way ill escape this stench of a life I am in, a life I don’t think I quite deserve even though I was partly responsible for the crack in the young mans skull. As for my master. I still have a certain fondness for him. He need not worry of anyone finding him; I won’t be responsible for his being convicted like some of my fellows have been. I think the stench and the water has washed away his fingerprints. Do I feel sorry for the young man? Well I do, I wished my master hadn’t done so. It surprised me also. I didn’t think I had ever seem my master so angry. It was something the young man had said that made him such. Humans are funny creatures. Just a word can make a lot of them loose their senses. They seem to think they are in control of their language but from what I see its language that control most of them. Slaves to their own invention. I hope young man you don’t bear a grudge against me. I am so much in the hands of whomever I fall in. I wish I could be otherwise but I cannot.
I am the spurned lover. Our love was strong until the day he thought I knew too much about him. Too much to be a danger. Then he spurned me. Washed his hands off me, as if I was some dirt that had settled on his skin without his consent. But I knew he loved me and still think he does. Had he found a better replacement to me? Something he could use to better effect. No I don’t think it’s that. I know how much he trusted me. He used to take me with him everywhere. He picked me a virgin over others more experienced. He thought I would never falter and I loved his faith in me. I wish I could complain like a woman but I cannot. I am considered inanimate. A non-living thing. Period. Still wondering who I am? I am the revolver, the butt of which he had used to crack the young man’s skull. Anyways, so much by way of my introduction. How does it matter from where I lie, that question of what I was?
I don’t know how long will I remain here. I won’t complain about the smell here. After all I am not supposed to be smelling, inanimate as I am you will say. And you know how a drain should smell even if you were sensitive enough to think I could smell, so I won’t go into that. But it does feel bad to lie neglected here. Neglected after having been the prized possession of a man. He has been my only master. I can still feel the warmth of his hands as he took me out from his drawers to strap me against his waist each time he went out. Well, I have been triggered just once by him. The time he fired a test shot in the air when he bought me from my maker. To be honest with you I have never triggered a blood shot. Now that may make me an object of ridicule among my fellows but I am like that. Somehow I like to be quiet. I just like to feel possessed, just like any object of man’s invention.
I know you will all laugh at me if I said this, but I do abhor violence. You will all accuse me of being the dispenser. But do understand I am really not like the others. I do abhor violence and it pains me to hear stories of people killing each other with gunshots. Here some of my fellows take pride in the number of bloodshot they have been part of. It’s much like the men bragging about the number of women they have slept with. But I am really not like them. After all I am just the modern prototype of the bow and our chief function is to give direction. But why must it always be a missile, a poisoned arrow or a lead bullet? Why cant it the missile be love like in cupids bow. I would love to dispense a missile of love. I would shoot my master first. But then if they only feed me with lead bullets I can’t help it. Men haven’t been imaginative enough to think of any other missile, that’s my biggest complaint. When they do you can be sure ill give them direction like the way I will always be doing and you will understand me better. Perhaps ill even transform from a symbol of violence to a symbol of love.
See that thought has hope. It’s begun to rain now. A welcome relief it is. I hope this drain fills and begins to flow and I am swept from here to some outlet, where someone may just find me. That’s the only way ill escape this stench of a life I am in, a life I don’t think I quite deserve even though I was partly responsible for the crack in the young mans skull. As for my master. I still have a certain fondness for him. He need not worry of anyone finding him; I won’t be responsible for his being convicted like some of my fellows have been. I think the stench and the water has washed away his fingerprints. Do I feel sorry for the young man? Well I do, I wished my master hadn’t done so. It surprised me also. I didn’t think I had ever seem my master so angry. It was something the young man had said that made him such. Humans are funny creatures. Just a word can make a lot of them loose their senses. They seem to think they are in control of their language but from what I see its language that control most of them. Slaves to their own invention. I hope young man you don’t bear a grudge against me. I am so much in the hands of whomever I fall in. I wish I could be otherwise but I cannot.
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