by Giovanni Mangiante

I took my father’s revolver,
walked back to my apartment
closed the bedroom door
closed the windows
closed the curtains,
emptied the few bullets
in the chambers
put it to my temple
click,
then once more:
click, click, click….
the gun felt less heavy with every click
I, felt less heavy with every click.
Soon afterwards I put one bullet
in one of the cylinder’s chamber,
I thought about the chances
numbers, numbers,
what did it matter anyway,
spin spin spin spin
gun to my temple
click
nothing.
I loaded a second bullet,
pressed again the gun to my head
and as I took a deep breath
my phone rang, and it was my father
“I bought us all something eat” he said
“Come eat with us today. I picked your favorite from the restaurant”
I looked at the revolver,
the scattered bullets,
a half empty bottle of whiskey
from the night before,
I closed my eyes
and pictured him there,
aging slowly with the days,
waiting for me to arrive.
“Yes” I said
“Yes, I’d like that very much”
And put the gun down.
&
&

Giovanni Mangiante

Giovanni Mangiante, born on March 17th, 1996, is a Peruvian writer who focuses his work on a desperate life of mental illness, suicide, humor, and dirty realism. He mostly writes about personal experiences that range from addiction, loneliness, and anecdotal conversations or thoughts.

Artist: Kenny Lou