The Story of the .22

The Story of the .22

There is velocity wrapped in my nature. My momentum is forceful, a character trait visible in magnitude. Engaged descriptors define me as powerful. My trajectory targets the offender. I hold no prejudice in discharging my duty. Death's blame lies not with me, but with my holder. My voice is explosive with people left to heed its recoil. Proportional is my direction aimed at malice. Expedient is my judgment, delivered swift and accurately, in the acquittal of my task. I am both feared and revered.

Throughout history, my story is repeated over and over. Heralded in books and tabloids, my exploits loom large. Credited with the massacre of one or the travesties of a multitude, my tale is avowed. Truth becomes buried behind details and sentiment, as the saga unfolds. My marksman is exonerated, with his acts left unseen. Blind is the justice that attributes my evil. I am who I am, made solely for the intent of a purpose. I am the dubious tool of destruction or the affirmation of life. The pointed debate follows the conclusion of each new story. I am endorsed or despised as the tide's trend fancies.

My escapades that I relate here and now are small glimpses of testimony. They are video clips, tiny bytes of my story, to explain away guilt. It is you who will eventually judge me. Personal perspective and discernment will cast my lot. My balance hangs not in the hands of one but of a society. The argument will never cease as long as the holder is left unaccountable.

Yesterday, I met a man named Alex. He lived a substandard life in a crime-ridden neighborhood. Alex wanted only to better himself. Each day he worked a job he hated. He rode the bus to a school for a chance at an education. He kept his head down while plowing ahead. He planted goals for the people he loved. It was on the bus that carried him to classes, I was introduced to Alex by Robert. It was a rude and callous introduction. I knew nothing of Alex's hopes and dreams until the aftermath. Robert was a drug addict in search of his next score, for which he needed money. My greetings were presented to Alex in ghastly fashion. Alex fell to the ground upon meeting me. His corpse riddled with holes from which blood oozed lay motionless. His wallet containing two dollars and pictures of three small smiling children fell beside him. Robert snapped up the money as he ran. My job was completed without remorse.

A few years ago, I met a woman named Eleanor. She was the wife of a farmer. Her husband worked late nights in the fields and worried about her safety when left home alone. He gave me as a gift, one fine Christmas, to his bride. Eleanor was trained in high efficiency in my use. One quiet evening, two men broke into the farmhouse bungalow. Eleanor was raped and beaten viciously. As the men ransacked the house and debated on whether the woman would live or die, Eleanor grabbed me by my barrel. I was swung into action blowing off the heads of the intruders. No feeling of sadness or loss did I ascertain. Eleanor screamed in terror from the misery of her ordeal and her confiscation of human life.

Michael had just joined the Boy Scouts when I met him. He had learned to hunt at his father's knee. We spent many days together in target practice, acquiring safety badges, and hanging from a tree awaiting the kill of a deer. My endeavors were guided through the site Michael viewed. I did not cry for the deer nor applaud the awards. Michael grew up to be a keeper of the law and protector of people.

In my time of service, I have been the testifier of school shootings. I have bore witness to abhorrent crimes against people. I have provided food for many. I have protected and served. I have defended the weak and lay wreckage on the innocent. It is often I, that am questioned and challenged. My crimes were committed without sensibility. I say to you, it is the holster that bears blame or glory.

I am the bystander and spectator of good and evil. I come in many forms. My uses are varied, dependent on the aspirations of the holder. I am a .22 caliber gun. No evil exits my rifle barrel, it is hidden behind the lens.

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