It takes one second for a bullet to release from its chamber. For a life to end. For a breath to be taken away. For a scream to echo. For a heart to stop.
It only takes a lifetime to get over it. To get over the death of a connection that runs deep into your blood.
Your soul is dented.
Your life is rearranged.
Words are unfamiliar.
Pain is raw.
Tears are soft.
Your shell is hard.
Someone dies of suicide every forty seconds.
Someone just did.
Someone left children, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandmas and grandpas, friends. Someone did it again.
Someone is shoving a gun barrel in their mouth right now. Have they pulled the trigger yet? Will they? Could they? “They’re better off without me,” they think. “Who’s gonna miss me?”
Someone pulls the trigger. Another breaks down in tears, weeping, sobbing on their knees, grasping at the air, cursing God. Cursing themselves. They want to do it. They will try again.
Another weeps at someone’s funeral, staring at the casket, wondering what they did wrong. “If I had only called more,” or asked them how they were. “What if I had gone over that day?” they say. “I could have stopped it.” They get angry. They grasp at the air, they curse God. They curse themselves. They can’t forgive. They will keep trying.
No answers come.
The horror lives.
The nightmares grow.
Your behavior changes.
Your decisions are altered.
Your imperfections magnify.
Your perceptions change.
You grasp at the air a little less.
You stop cursing God.
You begin to forgive.