Some people find comfort in death through God, they think that there’s something waiting for them after the end. I never bought into that, my mother did though. I was scared at first, and still am, I suppose. At the beginning, when I first fully realized what was happening, I was horrified. It’s dulled over time, making way for a lull in feeling.

Maybe he is out there, some bearded guy in the sky watching over all of us. Maybe this is him punishing me for my sins. My mother used to be real adamant about not sinning, she was the type of woman to wash a kids mouth with soap if she caught them cursing. She did, actually, quite a few times. At the thought of my mother violently washing the sin from my mouth with soap, I could feel a laugh bubble up from my chest. I managed to cough out a few chuckles, my body convulsing and blood sputtering from my mouth with each one. The bullet wriggled around in the cavity in my chest as I laughed. I had gotten used to the pain, though, at least the paramedics knew I was still alive.

In thinking about my mother, I began to think about my father as well. He wasn’t as steeped in religion as she was but she still managed to pull him into church every so often. He would get mad at her for it sometimes, he would say that religion was a lie and wouldn’t get them anywhere. Sometimes I wonder how the two of them got together.

I was an only child and I didn’t make many friends at school. Most of my childhood was spent huddled around my mother, listening to her whisper stories about her and my father when they were young. I would sit on her lap and look up into her face with large, curious eyes as she walked down her memory lane. Sometimes my father would come home in the middle of her stories. We would be sitting in her old rocking chair, listening as his heavy footsteps made their way across the living room and into their bedroom. Once the door clicked behind him, she would continue, albeit quieter.

We never went out much as a family. This was fine with me, I was never much of an outside kid. I was never much of an inside kid either, in a strange way. The inside was always dark, off putting, and lonely. I had my room, though. It was the only place that didn’t scare me. Nothing would bother me once I was in there and closed the door, it was like being in a different house sometimes. There were times when I would have to try and block out the footsteps of my father, or the whispers of my mother. Whenever she wasn’t in her rocking chair, praying, or cooking, she was walking around the house murmuring things. I never knew what she was talking about, or who she was talking to. Sometimes my father would yell at her, telling her to shut up. She would usually stop after that, if she didn’t he would yell louder. And louder. And louder. I’d try and cover my ears when this happened, tried to pretend I was somewhere else.

He didn’t do much, my father. Most of his time was spent sitting in his recliner in front of the TV. It wasn’t always on, but he would be there nonetheless. Sometimes I would creep down our stairs and watch him as he watched himself. One time, he saw me while I sitting on the steps. His head turned toward me, slowly. Then he motioned me to come over to him. I stayed there for a moment, stunned. Some time had passed, then he shifted in his chair to get a better look at me. We locked eyes for a moment, me too scared to look away. Then he told me to come over to him, his voice hoarse but somehow welcoming. I stood next to him, and he put his hand around my shoulder. We both stared into the TV screen, looking at ourselves.

He did take me out one time, to a baseball game. I wasn’t interested, I don’t think he was either. We were sitting close to the field, his arm spilling into my seat. We didn’t talk to each other for most of the game. Then, he started talking about a friend he had. He pointed at the field and told me that the one in the red was his friend in high school. He put his arm around me, never taking his eyes off the field. I don’t think he was talking to me, or anyone. His friend had a wife and two kids, a girl and a boy. My father’s grip tightened around me. He told me about how his friend had gotten involved in some bad things, about how wife left him and the kids some time ago. Then the kids left him too. My father’s grip tightened again, pulling me closer to him.

One day, just after my father left our house, I followed my mother around our house while she was talking. Usually, whenever she went around the house talking, she would keep it down to a whisper. She was louder on this day, almost yelling.

My mother ran away once. Looking back, I don’t know how he managed to catch her. All I can remember was her screaming and running around behind our house. I thought it was pretty funny at first, to see her sprinting through the yard and flailing her arms. She was yelling something about the wrath of God smiting someone, about their day of reckoning coming. Then my father came storming out of our house, and he-

A violent fit of coughing interrupted me. I stopped paying attention to the ride in the back of the ambulance some time ago, apparently we reached our destination. They were wheeling me out of the vehicle and into a large, white building. The pain in my chest had returned, reminding me of the situation I was in. It was strange, I could barely feel the bullet anymore. When I came back to the ambulance, though, I started to feel again. There wasn’t much to feel at this point, though. They were wheeling me somewhere, somewhere deep into the hospital. At least I assume it was, I had been staring at a passing string of lights for some time now. Sometimes they would turn me, but my scenery remained basically the same. I could feel the hospital slipping from me again, like water through a clenched fist. Although, in this situation the fist would be more of an open palm.

I was back, suddenly. I was in my room, my mother in tears in a chair not too far from me. She had her head buried in her hands, her long gray hair falling over her and enveloping her body. I’m crying with her, reaching my tiny hand out to try and comfort her. I can’t reach her, though. We’re there, a few feet away from each other, my hand trying to bridge the gap between us. A few moments go by, then she looks up at me. I ask her if dad’s going to be okay. She looks at me for a moment, more tears threatening to escape her eyes. She tells me that I look just like him and pulls me close, wrapping me in her arms. Her hair falls over the both us and I wrap my arms around her. We both start crying, our embrace tightening.