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Shooting at nothing. That's what I'm doing. A long time ago, way before we moved here, a teenager who used to live on my street liked to go out to his yard at night, point his dad's shotgun straight up in the air, and just shoot. People often found shells on the sidewalk in front of the house as well as random places scattered throughout the tiny neighborhood. No one thought anything of it. Owning a gun wasn't uncommon in the area and I guess everyone figured that shooting at nothing was better than shooting at something. Then one night, like usual, he went outside and he shot. I don't know if the angled the gun differently or what circumstances led to it, but somehow the bullet went up in a perfect arc and came back down right on top of one of his neighbor's heads. He was killed instantly, but the boy didn't know anything until the police came. I don't know what became of him because we moved soon after that, going after another job.
I guess that's what I'm doing with you. Shooting at nothing but darkness in hopes that nothing bad would happen. But the bullets have to end up somewhere. It's not your fault, you were just there at first. A coincidence, really. But then we got to know each other and I told you everything even though I shouldn't have and I kept shooting and shooting until someone got hurt. And now I've lost you. Or maybe you've been gone for a while, and I just didn't know it yet. But now the police have arrived and the sirens are wailing and the guilt of what I've done is starting to set in like a boulder lying on top my stomach.





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