In
high school,
senior year, I
killed a
pigeon with a
potato gun.
I didn't think I'd hit it; I gave in to peer pressure; I was emboldened by the new toy I'd made: I can make excuses.
But it really was my fault. I aimed, and I pulled the trigger.
When I saw what I had done, I rushed over to the pigeon. It was weakly limping in circles, and flapping its wings ineffectively. After half a minute, it sat down, put its head under its wing, and died.
My friend and I wrapped it in a newspaper and threw it into the trash.
And the terrible thing: I couldn't stop laughing. A painful laugh, it hurt. The scene had been so horrifying, so surreal, that I couldn't control myself.
I'll never use any sort of gun again.