Dream Girl

I keep telling myself, put the gun down, Melanie . . . put the gun down . . .

The first time I had a gun to my head I was nine-years old. I remember I was terrified, shaking with fear. If I think hard enough I can still taste the tears. My father had warned me three times not to leave hair in the goddamn sink, on the fourth he just lost the plot and grabbed his gun, then me. My face pressed down hard on the cold sink, the gun pressed to back of my head, I pissed myself. Now, it almost seems like a lifetime ago, but at the same time, in a way I can’t describe, it feels like yesterday. Some things in life really stick with you, as hard as you try you just can’t shake them. The pain, the trauma, it never really leaves, it stays chiselled in your memory. You stay haunted, like having a ghost in the house and every time you move house – the son-of-a-bitch follows.
These are the last few moments of my life, all I can think about is my father, that fucking sink, and Bobby the old me.
Is there is an afterlife? There must be. A life without Bobby? I doubt it. What will happen to me when I pull this trigger and my brains are splattered all over the room? Will I awake as the women I always dreamed? As I press the cold steel barrel against my temple – am I still at the sink?
Seconds to live . . .
‘FUCK THIS!’
He should die – not me! Shoot the goddamn sink. Shoot the ghost. That fucking piece of shit! Kill Bobby!
‘Jesus Christ! What’s happening to me?’
Put the gun down, . . . put the gun down . . .