Psychological Story Contest

I just couldn't remember where I left my gun after I'd taken the pills. Once I regained some semblance of sanity, I checked to make sure I hadn't been too open and obvious about my intentions. In the depths of that soul-shaking fear and paranoia, no act of violence seemed irrational. Not even killing a baby. I frightened even myself with the sick rationalizations I had developed in order to feed the illness. Like so many times before the pills began to work, the sense that normalcy was not normal and that insanity was sanity, would grasp me and twist me like the twine of a rope and split me like the unraveling of a bright bit of embroidery thread. My mind flip-flopped so hard that the subconscious became the conscious and the conscious was locked inside my brain weakly fighting to get out. Sometimes it managed to peek through and at those rare moments I would check to make sure that whatever the subconscious told me to do, I did not do.
Like trying to remember where I'd left that damned gun. I had to find it to make sure that it hadn't been used nor discovered. That was the measure of my sanity. How much control I could exert until the pills took effect enough to make me see clearly. I moved quickly yet stiffly to the hallway closet where the gun lay hidden on a top shelf, half-forgotten by the rest of my family. But in my mind always. Just as an alternative to reality. Or perhaps as an addition or replacement to reality. Just in case.
Feeling for the ice-cold metal, I tried not to think of what I had planned to do. Suddenly, my fingers struck the barrel and it was cold. So far so good. It appeared that it had not been used, not even touched my own crazy hand.
Now all that remained was to confirm that all was well with those that I loved most in the world and those same whom I endangered the most.
Still stiff with fear, but not the paranoia this time, I forced my legs to carry me into the living room where the Christmas tree stood and my beautiful living family gathered, pretending happiness while consumed with stress over my illness. Sadness tinged their eyes as smiles fractured like fragile porcelain teacups.
My chest expanded but not with breath. The twin emotions of horror and relief tore at each other as if they were cats fighting in a bag of sorrow. I-we-had made it through the night, until the pills wore off, and another round of sickness began in the morning.
Now if I could just not remember where I left my gun again.
THE END.

"...and at the hour of our death..." and "Saving Pearl": two short stories by SimplyBlue author P.I. Barrington slated for publication in The Magazine of Unbelievable Stories, July and October issues, 2007.

Check out P.I.Barrington's articles at
Helium.com