Prose

One Act, One Chance, One Shot

SCENE.

A GUN, black, polished, and revolver-style, lies on an end table made of dark wood at center stage. The end table has one drawer on the front with a knob. The entire stage is dark except for one soft spotlight on the GUN.

GUN: The bullets. It was the bullets. I was so innocent the day I saw their fetid box set down upon the table next to me. They were the ones who raped my virgin chamber; they were the ones who lay in wait in my darkest recesses. I didn’t want to hide them there. I wasn’t the one who let them in. They sat there so parasitically; I could feel them choking me, enervating me, mocking my very dignity. It seemed like weeks. Long, dark, agonizing weeks.

A long pause.

GUN: But the day came. The day came at last when I gave birth to lead and carnage. The heat seared me from the inside out; the sound keeps ringing throughout my whole casing; the residue, the smell. Five times they racked my body. (Another pause.) Why do they silence me!? Does no one hear my shouts? My screams? How many more times must I tell them who I am? I’m not a murderer! I don’t kill people. They do.

A black gloved hand reaches into the light, opens the drawer, puts the gun in, and closes the drawer. Exit GUN.

LIGHTS CUT.

A gunshot.

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