Public Key:1BayerNGeyWgdjq5DruQ4Mo5LoR1nHvxNE SHA-256:09112959f45fe758543635394ed577bb04c25310a4b465927d50d242ac29b1d0 File:blog/target-practice-580eb0b0bf58.txt Signature:GxQ+bxBm0u0rDLlXPc9Ps80ai6+GNIaogGKVJfJUlEWJJW4+2EQJY5OFMM9nAPPSNHR1hJiqHwrurGerTXoLgPc=
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.