The handgun felt heavy, but was easy to hold. It was solid metal, cold, and dark.

I inspected the gun for safety. The clip was inserted properly, there were not any worrying scratches or damage, it was good.

I aimed the gun at the target poster, a generic body silhouette with a red oval in the center of the chest and lines in orderly distances around it. I turned the safety off.

I shot my first shot, a single loud bang, followed by a minimal echo. I hit the upper left part of number seven, not bad for my first, usually I miss the body and just hit the white part of the poster.

I shot again, an eight this time, but to the upper-right.

Another shot, hit on the red, and another, and another directly to the torso.

I focused more. I adjusted right a small bit, directly to the heart, and another, and another, and another.

I aimed up, I hit the upper neck, then the forehead, then directly on the face.

I shot again, directly to the face. The sound started to numb. I shot again, and again both to the head. Anger brewed within me.

I shot another time, straight on the bridge of the nose.

My breath labored. I felt out of control. I felt like I was being used. I felt like I’ve been through this situation countless of times and absolutely nothing had changed.

I looked at the gun. The exact same thing I had in my hand seemed different for some reason. I sobbed. I thought what I should do. I had one more bullet.

But what I thought didn’t matter.

I wasn’t in control.