10.17.10
doublehaunted by the superdevil: the lesson of blue house
So there I was, staring down the barrel of my own gun.
In the harsh, orange light, I could just barely make out the small grooves of the pistol’s rifling pattern. I turned the barrel toward the single tungsten light hanging from the ceiling. I could see flecks of dust, and unburnt powder resting on the polished chrome interior. Behind me, on an aged and abused old mattress, lay the handgun’s frame and slide, along with its recoil spring and magazine. In the center of the room, my friend Davis was attempting futilely to attach his PlayStation to an uncooperative television, his cursing muffled by the wall-to-wall curtains meant to conceal a particularly disconcerting black and white patterned wallpaper. I shivered in the cold autumn air that leaked through the cracks in the walls and blew the dust out of the barrel, then placed it back into the slide assembly along with the recoil spring, and reattached it to the frame of the gun. With a fairly audible click, I depressed the button that decocked the striker mechanism in the gun, increasing the trigger pull and decreasing the chance of a stress-induced negligent discharge. Satisfied with my half-finished cleaning job, I re-holstered my weapon, its weight against my hip at once disconcerting and oddly comforting.
I looked around the room. Davis had gotten nowhere in his endeavors.
I sighed.
I fucking hated this house.