The holy man put the revolver to my head.
The cold, protruding tip of the barrel sent shivers down my spine.
On my knees, I was convulsing in gruesome fervor.
My thoughts were conflicting and my head spurning.
I was nervous to die by the hand of divinity.
That gun, a construct of polished chrome metal,
It had dominated my life since I was born.
Always afraid of its potential, the obscure.
I had always shut my eyes and stopped listening,
to the objections against that revolver.
I had never seen it fired,
but that doesn't mean it was loaded and deadly.
But then, while kneeling, my knees started to ache.
I was scared to stand, lest the holy man shoot me.
All I wanted was relief.
I couldn't help but stand up.
Sweat and the stench of fear overcome me.
I might be ****** if I do,
but I couldn't take the pain any longer.
I put one foot on the ground and heard the revolver hammer ****.
I put the second foot on the ground,
and stood up even faster in shear momentum.
Terrified in that split second,
I tried to cover my face,
I did not wish to see my own death.
And then a sort of contrive thing happened.
It took my brain minutes to register what had happened.
The holy man's gun isn't loaded.
All it is, is fear.