The Shot

I shot myself once.

I think I was in Grade School then. My brother and my sisters and I were in a room, and I was playing with my brother's air gun. Since I was bored, I decided to put on a little show. I cocked the gun, slid the magazine out, and pressed the nozzle to my palm. Then I told my siblings to look at me. When they did, I pulled the trigger.

I ended up howling. Or roaring. Yep, if you guys head a Screaming Banshee on some memorable afternoon years before, then you heard me. I thought I had shot a hole through my left palm. (Not that it would have been the first hole there; that palm has actually been stabbed with a stake disguised as a pencil, just like that which Buffy used to kill a vampire once. But that's another story.)

Surprisingly, the tiny green pellet contented itself with leaving an equally tiny red mark that did not even last the day. I emerged from this ordeal unscathed. But I know I have been scarred.

I am not playing with guns again.

Note: I did not intend to shoot myself. I thought that I had rid the gun of all bullets when I slid the magazine out. Apparently, it does not work that way: the cocking of the gun traps a bullet and keeps it there until it is released with a shot. Sheesh. On the bright side, thank God it was just an air gun.