I watched holes bloom on the target, nowhere near where I aimed. I’d have to practice for hours to become reliable, thinking about the finality of what I was doing with each pull of the trigger. The friends who brought me to the range were oblivious to my vague thoughts of one day using a weapon to end the slow deterioration of my Parkinson's. Having that unfamiliar weight and engineered ruthlessness in my hands felt like standing on a building without a railing. Was this a merciful way out or an extreme expression of frustration? I'll have to do better.
David Ledrick has a wide range of interests and wishes the days were longer so he could pursue them all. He really should get more sleep.