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Most recent 20 results returned for keyword: If I Had a Gun (Search this on MAP)

https://plus.google.com/104611852288652678468 Carrie H. : I can't say who I dedicate this to because I have a child with them! I do remember all those times getting...
I can't say who I dedicate this to because I have a child with them! I do remember all those times getting beat and me saying " I hate you! I swear if I had a gun I'd shoot you right now!" Sad thing is,I meant it & I'd be in prison right now! My child wouldn't have their father either! He's very good to my child,he's never hit my child. They have him wrapped around their pinky ,& get everything they want! It was just me that got beat!! Just me.....

Watch the video: Church Bells - Carrie Underwood
https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/oF8J8_D7njIENA-yPaFesfmeEokN1OAVxXCv0HbpHSzkY8e0uhZ4GSRM4ztKc7brrZVbYhKkHBIbyBmgeFqTM1P9meE=w506-h284-n
Lyrics video.....enjoy!
1 day ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/114069028541886741710 Richkid Gh : I’d Kill Kojo Antwi If I Had A Gun - Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy The controversies surrounding the perceived...
I’d Kill Kojo Antwi If I Had A Gun - Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy
The controversies surrounding the
perceived derision of the managerial expertise of the Kojo Antwi led
administration of Ghamro has taken another impeccable convolution as
Legendary Ghanaian highlife musician, Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy made a
staggering re...
I’d Kill Kojo Antwi If I Had A Gun - Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy
The controversies surrounding the perceived derision of the managerial expertise of the Kojo Antwi led administration of Ghamro ...
1 day ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/109235085393192678781 Angel Guerra : (Can't forget about you) I'm writing this song, Can't explain myself very well, It been so long, can't...
(Can't forget about you)

I'm writing this song,
Can't explain myself very well,
It been so long, can't believe you so far away from me,
Away from the world, I'm on the another side of the world,
You broke my heart,
Never cared, we weren't dating, but we had a great friendship, and now you ruined it
The fuck did I do to you,
If you were sad, told you to talk about it,
You know I'm always on your side to help you out,
Red beans in my heart,
this shit is so extreme,
Can't believe you left me,
You never said the word sorry,
You always insulting, and even put the cop on me,
You made up a lie, that I was harassing you,
How if I wasn't even close to you,

I just didn't do nothing about it,
I never hurt the ones, that meant the world to me,
No matter, what they put me through,
I would always forgive you,
but won't forget about you,
you just damaged my heart, you selfish bitch, I hope you payed for this, shit, oh my if I had the opportunity of making a wish, I only wish for you to burned in hell

Can't forget about you,
I just can't, if I had a gun,
I put it right through my head,
Click the trigger,
and blow my fuckin brains off,
and no more having problems, in my head,
If I click the trigger, and just end myself
will anyone miss me, if I leave from this world
will god ever welcome me, up in heaven,
Oh wait, God wasn't there, or near me,
He let it happen, he let the devil take me,

My today friend won't miss me,
Faking it, since day one,
I was never her friend, fucking whore,
Sell yourself on the street, and make me sum money,
I'm not writing this song to softly,
I'm only releasing all my anger,
I couldn't keep them inside,
my veins were on fire,
and my whole skin is melting down,
You know what, I'm done,
I'm going to save my anger, that way when I see you,
I will punch your face, squeeze your face like play doh
I just won't forget about you,
I'm only telling you this, I'm karma,
and I swear, I'll be coming around, with my shotgun,
Drive by and blow your fucking organic,
That way you won't, get laid again,
Cause you won't be having taste, no guy would like to put their dick on your butt,
Enjoy your honeymoon, boobie,
Here a happy meal, so I can see you smile aww

Bye bitch I don't love you don't want you as a friend anymore
You disgust me, your face beautiful became ugly,
I only wish this was a dream,
but is not oh fucked you still alive,
Got an Idea, find a building climb up once you get there,
Jump, and kill your self you dumb bitch,
Okay, I won't show on your ceremony
I don't give a fuck about your funeral, fuck you and fuck you of having rest in peace,
"Master, when you take her down there
Make sure she suffers more,
Make sure you beat her up with the belt,
Fuckin rape her, destroy her pussy,
Destroyed all of it, then throw fire on it,
and stab her with a big knife, make her life miserable
Hit her, hit her on the back, torn her skin off,
Drown her face on the lake fire,
Make sure her face melts down, and gets all black
Like the way Drake looks all ugly,
Thank you, and now you can take her, enjoy her, amen
4 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/111285901775725929046 Ian Conway :

Noel Gallagher'S High Flying Birds - If I Had A Gun... (Single)
Listen to the album, purchase & download it at lowest price and high sound quality! Music-bazaar.com - offers you the largest music collection for direct downloading!
6 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/112452669336130506367 Seth Nkansah : I’d Kill Kojo Antwi If I Had A Gun - Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy The controversies surrounding the perceived...
I’d Kill Kojo Antwi If I Had A Gun - Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy
The controversies surrounding the
perceived derision of the managerial expertise of the Kojo Antwi led
administration of Ghamro has taken another impeccable convolution as
Legendary Ghanaian highlife musician, Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy made a
staggering re...
I’d Kill Kojo Antwi If I Had A Gun - Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy
The controversies surrounding the perceived derision of the managerial expertise of the Kojo Antwi led administration of Ghamro has taken another impeccable convolution as Legendary Ghanaian highlife musician, Abirekyieba Kof...
6 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/104962541445076966919 Ibrahim Abubakari :

I’d Kill Kojo Antwi If I Had A Gun – Abirekyieba Kofi Sammy - GhanaThings.com
The controversies surrounding the perceived derision of the managerial expertise of the Kojo Antwi led administration of Ghamro has taken another impeccable convolution as Legendary Ghanaian highlife musician, Abirekyieba Kof...
7 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/112202232265806970029 smartass : "if i had a gun to you head and-" pull the trigger I wanna die
"if i had a gun to you head and-"

pull the trigger I wanna die
7 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/108765573865517448906 Rebecca Bradley : Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds - If I Had A Gun… https://youtu.be/1NMUDb3Ewhs
Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds - If I Had A Gun…
https://youtu.be/1NMUDb3Ewhs
Watch the video: Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds - If I Had A Gun…
https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/Qxrw1TuOH6AbMkLBxtxqDnYCJTKKhsuSftJXSSxgUlDb37NMe4GPa4eX5HhheGkWFMwvxm3Vc9q03Pv7v80JY0sqQ64=w506-h284-n
Music video by Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds performing If I Had A Gun… . Directed by Mike Bruce SUBSCRIBE: http://www.youtube.com/subscription_center?a...
8 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/100506869584612190708 Md Ali Razu : If I had a gun with two bullets, and I was in a room with Hitler, Bin Laden and Toby(HR). I would shoot...
If I had a gun with two bullets, and I was in a room with Hitler, Bin Laden and Toby(HR). I would shoot Toby twice.
https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-lgM1oAhi24I/WJvYf9qyWNI/AAAAAAAADXM/PXkm2gN_weEmwt6f1Lw_W9IN35qvDjiywCJoC/w506-h750/17%2B-%2B1
14 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/101336469979291828349 Ness - Giygas (ネス - ギーグ) : Tbh, I would shoot up my school if I had a gun.
Tbh, I would shoot up my school if I had a gun. 
17 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/113785312737045867086 Alanna Casas : What would you do? concerning unwanted drone activity (privacy invasion) What would you do if you saw...
What would you do?
concerning unwanted drone activity (privacy invasion)
What would you do if you saw a drone with a camera hovering over your backyard where your kids were playing or where your partner was sunbathing, nearly nude?
21 days ago - Via Reshared Post - View -
https://plus.google.com/114818561500013914851 Sasuke Uchiha :

https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-qsgMYzddQCo/WJFFjqtMIxI/AAAAAAAAeIA/f8f8nMhWKlAb96X82qtCBUZqy7_sOtVrgCJoC/w506-h750/16%2B-%2B1
22 days ago - Via Reshared Post - View -
https://plus.google.com/109214594754456802034 Ms. Jean : Loser lyrics - Cracker If I had a gun for every ace I have drawn, I could arm a town the size of Abilene...
Loser lyrics - Cracker
If I had a gun for every ace I have drawn, I could arm a town the size of Abilene Don't you push me baby, Cause I'm all alone and you know I'm only in it for the gold All that I am asking is for ten gold dollars And I could pay you back with one good hand Y...
Loser lyrics - Cracker
If I had a gun for every ace I have drawn, I could arm a town the size of Abilene Don't you push me baby, Cause I'm all alone and you know I'm only in it for the gold All that I am asking is for ten gold dollars And I could p...
24 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/105251718252873737565 Kalyan Siruvati : If i had a gun with two bullets and i was with hitler,bin laden and you insert your ex or your enemy’s...

If i had a gun with two bullets and i was with hitler,bin laden and you insert your ex or your enemy’s name],i would shoot you twice.
25 days ago - Via Google+ - View -
https://plus.google.com/114916852150523735831 Jacqueline Legault : (TRIGGER WARNING!) CHAPTER ONE: TEARDROPS THAT TANGO: TELL YOUR SUICIDE SURVIVAL STORY: Today is a "...
(TRIGGER WARNING!) CHAPTER ONE: TEARDROPS THAT TANGO: TELL YOUR SUICIDE SURVIVAL STORY: Today is a "special" day. November 21, 2015 is "Survivors of Suicide Loss Day." I will be posting about all four suicides in my family, as well as my testimony, chapter one is here on YouTube: *https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6R6AF9Hg7qI*
"No mistakes in the tango Donna, not like life. Simple, that's what makes the tango so great. If you make a mistake, get all tangled up, you just tango on." (Al Pacino. Scent of a Woman, 1992)
Teardrops that Tango:
Kirk
“A mere moment too late and we can never reach them any more in this world. They will not be cured by our most efficacious drugs or slain with our sharpest swords.” (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
I'll never forget the last words my fiancé said to me before I watched him die. “You want me to end all your problems, Heather? I’ll end them all right now!” His words spat through his locked jaw. This previously concealed wrath quickly diminished what I knew of the easy-going man I was scheduled to marry in two months. Kirk’s normally composed personality disappeared, and was replaced with the hysterical man in front of me. He struggled and clawed against the air, towards our bedroom. The breath locked in my lungs when he reappeared clutching his father’s Smith & Wesson, 9mm. 
His forehead was slicked with sweat as he buried the muzzle into his right temple. A pang of futility pierced through me, blanching the color from my face. The pulsing terror was so acute, I was virtually paralyzed. My mind struggled to defy this indefinable moment. I was frantically holding onto Kirk’s life by my own willpower alone, but my wits were sapped. Wrestling with reality, my vision distorted as my life played out like a movie on fast forward, jumping from one random section to another. I wasn’t in a real life drama, but a nightmare. How can this be happening? Kirk's legs quavered as he tried to stabilize himself. I could feel my throat begin to swell when he narrowed his eyes and tightly pursed his lips. I struggled to escape the rising panic, balls of fear jumped up within my newly pregnant belly and coursed up to my fingertips. His nostrils flared as his index finger curled around the trigger. Oh no…. Please God no…
Merely hours before, our joy was looked upon as enviable. How did we get from selecting baby names, to this desperate position, with twisted threats of self-execution?
In the Beginning
“I’ll send someone right over Heather.” The raspy male voice responded through the walkie-talkie’s static. Offended and annoyed with customers like this, I crossed my arms and tapped my foot, glancing every now and again at the invisible watch I wasn’t wearing. I never required a “captain’s” (our appealing name for bouncers) assistance at work before, their faces were unfamiliar melded images, along with the masses of other employees at the restaurant. I only recognized their sharp business attire. 
The plastered patron that initiated my summoning attempted to pinch my back side again, tumbling off a bar stool in the process. I was incensed with him, my irritation recognizable in my offended grimace. I waited impatiently for my co-worker to “remove” this guy. Reinforcement began funneling towards me in a posh blue suit. The atonal music of the busy night seemed to hush in awareness of him. Mid-tap, my foot went motionless, my mouth gaping in awe. Demanding veneration, this captain walked in long, big strides, appearing like a force of nature. I kept my eyes trained on this man, feeling drawn towards him, as if he tugged some invisible rope around my waist. My arms plummeted lifelessly to my sides in submission. Who is that?!
At six foot, eight inches tall, it was impossible to not take notice of this striking man. He was intimidating, but beautiful, hoisted head and shoulders above everyone else. I squinted to see the black name-pin on his upper chest. A step closer and it came into focus; “Kirk.” 
He was smiling indulgently, his faultless olive skin radiating from under his clothing. He had jet-black hair that was slicked-back straight, but delectable stubborn ringlets curled up at the nape of his white Oxford collar. His piercing brown eyes intensified his cultural élan, making my knees buckle. 
I suddenly couldn’t speak, so I pointed to the drunken culprit. Without saying a word, Kirk looped his hand through the inebriated cat-caller’s Western-style belt and carried him at least fifty feet to the front doors, using the man’s head to swing them open. With fluid harmony, he lobbed “drunken sticky fingers” into a waiting cab. When the taxi zipped away, Kirk straightened his tie, smoothed his hair with both hands, and swaggered back inside. He was astoundingly quick, the delinquent activities resolved in less than two minutes. My stomach quivered as he came back inside and boldly promenaded towards me again. Speak Heather, get yourself together girl!
“Are you okay…?” his stunning eyes began searching my blouse for my name badge, making my chest feel fiery. 
“Heather!” I almost shouted, thrusting out my hand for him to shake. “Y—yyes, I’m ookay now, Kkkirrrk,” I stuttered.
“It’s nice to meet you Heather,” he accepted my handshake with a demure but amused smile, his enormous hand consuming mine. Forked lightning speared through my body when our hands joined, my eyes darted up to meet his. Did you feel that? I marveled at the sensation and questioned his eyes to see if he felt it too, but he seemed even and unruffled. 
“You just let me know if you have any more trouble,” he said. I bobbed my head up and down as to indicate that I would. Uh, yeah, I’m scorched from your heat, but I’m good. I evaded eye contact with him once more, but when I dared to sneak another peek, he winked at me before walking away. I flushed, tingling from head to toe. His smile seemed to glow in the dark. I realized I had been holding my breath, and exhaled in a huge whoosh. When I regained my footing, I turned to my co-worker and whispered, “He’s mine.”
I couldn't stop ogling him throughout the night, a moment more with Kirk, I would be the cat-caller removed for sexual harassment. Returning home after my shift, I was still thinking about him all night. How handsome and mysterious he was. How swiftly he “rescued me.” I couldn’t wait to see him again, but when I checked our work schedule for his hours, I saw he was off. Crap! I sauntered off to my station, frustratingly kicking at invisible stones on the floor. Sooner than my heart could sink, I saw him walking right towards me. 
Oh God! I spun around and quickly slathered on some lip gloss. He reminded people of the actor, Steven Seagal, and I could see the association, especially since he was into karate. He had obviously just showered, and was wearing a gi and a clean white T-shirt. The scent of soap and a mild men’s cologne wafted off his body. He casually sat in one of my booths. His hair was disheveled in such a cute way, I wanted to reach out and slowly twirl one of those black ringlets around my index finger. Stop that Heather! I anxiously flattened out invisible wrinkles in my skirt, combed my fingers through my hair, and walked towards him. Just don’t fall on your face!
I nonchErictly smiled, the actress in me taking over with a composed, even detached job performance. Robotically, I offered him a menu and asked if he’d like something to drink. I was looking back and forth between him and the quivering menu in my hands. Why can’t we will ourselves not to tremble? When he reached for it, it was clear he wasn’t shaking. His large hand instantly covered half the menu size. Kirk never broke eye contact with me, which made me inadvertently start biting my lip and shifting my feet. It was as if he relished seeing me flustered. Guess who immediately failed in her coolness attempt?
He finally answered, “I’ll just have a bottle of water please.” His voice was so suave and cultured, I didn’t respond right away. My stomach was too busy quivering and the restaurant suddenly felt so small. 
“Are you all right?” he asked. Hearing his voice again made me blink out of my daze, and I stammered back into gear. My father had taught me how to interpret men, I knew this god in a suit was trouble. 
“Of course,” I said thickly, determined to respond casually. I was irritated with myself for appearing so awkward and frazzled. “One water, coming up,” I chirped and scampered away like a frightened rabbit. 
I tried to keep from looking his direction, but every time I risked a glance at him, I saw that he was watching me intently. His gaze was almost sexual, I nearly felt taken right there. Lawd, this man is hot! Upon delivery of his water, he began to invite me out on a date, but I accepted before he could finish asking.
The intensity of our magnetic attraction was so powerful, we fell in love almost instantly. We were "two kids in love,” I was eighteen and Kirk was twenty-one when we heaved ourselves into a relationship that took off at a fierce gallop. 
If we weren’t working together, we were playing together. I was always linked to his arm or enfolded in his embrace. I loved being wrapped up in his chest; he made me feel sheltered and important. He was sociable, humorous, and trendy; always donning the most modern Italian fashions, most of which he had custom tailored because of his height. We frequently went dancing, laughed at comedy clubs, or dined out at his favorite restaurants, especially small bistros.
Kirk had everything going for him. He was intelligent, educated, and ambitious. He worked part-time for a multinational information technology equipment and services company. It was a vast career opportunity for a twenty-one year old. 
Kirk had a quick wit and silly sense of humor. He had no trouble meeting people, and could single-handedly “break the ice” with style. When he entered a room, he’d usually slap the top of the doorframe with his palm. He’d whirl around and grab his forehead, moaning as if he’d smacked his head, grunting like a hurt animal. The room would explode in laughter. Little did I know at the time that these comedic episodes disguised a man so tormented by depression, he’d tried to take his life before we met, requiring hospitalization after overdosing on handfuls of medication.
Bartending was exceptionally popular in the early nineties, even chic, with academies and schools popping up like convenience stores in every city. We had recently seen Tom Cruise shine as a sexy bartender in a new movie, “Cocktail.” With stars in his eyes, but cautious feet still planted in his business aspirations, Kirk wanted to shift his positions at our workplace, from a captain to a (much higher paid), bartender. He studied for months, memorizing drink recipes and receiving challenging “pop-quizzes” from me. Flash-cards and drink recipes speckled the apartment walls and were taped daily to the bathroom mirror and refrigerator. Before I knew it, I found myself dreaming about bewildering cocktail requests, “A sex on the, buttery, iron curtain please.” Oh no! How do we make that? 
Perhaps the basic skills of a bartender can be taught, but a truly great bartender ensures every detail is perfect and executed correctly. Before long, Kirk was acing numerous bartending tests. He loved bartending, and took pride in electrifying people with unusual “flairing,” such as flaming glasses and juggling bottles. I watched him with pride while he captivated and mesmerized customers with his newfound talent. Many nights we worked together, I would literally jump at sudden, loud surges of shouting and applause originating from the main bar. What in the world is going on? I only had to explore enthusiastic noise once. I saw Kirk entertaining hordes of people. He was so charming, the flock of mesmerized people pressed me into the bar. Everyone clapped in sync to each movement. When he poured, he reigned!
Knock for six
My period had always been fairly regular, so when I suddenly felt hung-over, dog-tired, and experienced a bout of nausea without the “fun” of drinking, I bought an at-home pregnancy test while Kirk was working. Tearing it open, I followed the crude steps. Pee on the little stick, and wait, and wait. 
I sat on the toilet, plopped up my elbows on the sink, and stared at the stick-test as if it were lethal. It felt like the longest three minutes of my life. Kirk and I had been together only eight months, so when those two fuzzy pink lines suddenly told me that I was pregnant, I felt irresponsible and reckless. The “real world” was about to become all too real. I must’ve looked childish when I told him I was pregnant, fidgeting like a little girl, fearful of his reaction. I was astonished at his over-the-moon, delighted anticipation to become a father. He was exceptionally happy, almost as if he’d desired this baby all along. 

About a week passed after discovering I was pregnant. We were both hard at work, when I unexpectedly heard Kirk's voice over the main intercom. "Miss Heather Hager, would you please come to Reservations?" I was surprised to hear his voice, he didn’t typically use the intercom as part of his job. He was up to something, I just didn’t know what. I sprinted towards his voice, top-speed. My heart jumped hurdles as I chased his voice excitedly. What is this all about? 
I saw him leading confidently against a mahogany podium. I caught my breath and looked around, realizing that every eye had turned to watch us, to watch Kirk. Swaying towards him, I added extra swing to feed the adoring swarm of hopelessly romantic people. I blushed in flighty delight. 
He smiled at me, winked, and confidently questioned, "Heather Hager, I love you,” the intercom suddenly protested with some squeaky feedback that made everyone giggle, “will you marry me?" 
He let go of the microphone and sprang down in front of me, dropping down on one leg. The whistling and men’s hooting increased. Even on his knees, I was almost eye-to-eye with him. I excitedly shouted, “Yes!” He took my left hand and placed a stunning engagement ring upon my finger, and kissed the top of my hand. I was bright eyed and thrilled as I shot up into his arms, kissing his cheek. 
Romantic whistles and varying tones of "congratulations!" reverberated throughout the restaurant. The throng around us cheered and clapped. He laughed. His amusement sounded like the bark of a content seal. I was anxious about life happening so fast, but excited about creating a family together. 
That night, after watching our favorite late night program, Kirk cuddled up behind me and whispered sweetly in my ear, “you’re going to have a girl, you should name her Kyra.” What did he mean by “I” will have a girl, what happened to we? “Children keep you alive,” he murmured, as he closed his eyes. He lovingly laced his hands over my belly, and we fell asleep.
Red Flags
I rushed home from work, feeling violently ill, but I wasn’t sick. I was operating on instinct now, Kirk had threatened his life. His battle with depression surfaced a few months into our relationship, and as I fumbled for the house key, my unsettled thoughts summoned up all the times my own mother had threatened suicide. This wasn’t as shocking to me as it may have been for someone else, until I stepped inside. 
There were eerie, analogous notes throughout the apartment. Each incorporated his farewells, valedictions, and directives for his funeral. “Play Me,” was haphazardly scripted on a “Post-It” note and smoothed onto the metallic silver of our stereo. Tentatively pushing play, the grief-stricken melody, “No One is to Blame,” by Howard Jones resounded out for anyone who would listen. My chest went tight with sympathetic sorrow, my breathing redoubled through pain-constricted lungs. I’m so sorry Kirk. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see another memo on my VCR. As if in a dream, my fingers wobbled as I nervously pressed play. The television lit up the room, the volume so jarringly high that I flinched. The movie, “Young Guns,” was describing the epitaph of “Billy the Kid.” It was heartbreaking to observe, I could easily resist confrontational urges to scream or bark at him. In my mistaken bravado, I thought I could help him. Restore bEricce and relieve all of his pain and trepidation, by talking him through this episode by myself (as if I were a doctor or psychologist), or some magical muse that could supernaturally expunge his despair. 
I didn’t want to “embarrass” him in front of his family, but finally told his best friend about his suicidal tendencies. This is a vital mistake myself, and many people make when dealing with someone who is suicidal. I was stunned when Kirk's best friend wasn’t the least bit surprised and told me, quite matter-of-factly, that Kirk overdosed about a year before we met, because of a failed relationship. It seemed like terrorizing threats weren’t surprising to anyone but me, thus I didn’t feel any safer discussing details after that. What have I gotten myself into? 
Kirk unexpectedly walked in the door with a fevered look in his eyes. He was rumpled over, he looked like he felt hopeless. I weightily threw my arms around his neck, almost knocking him over. I was so thankful he hadn’t hurt himself. We stayed up all night, talking and crying it out with noses running like faucets. We never went to sleep, greeting the sunrise with swollen and sore eyes, we were chortling and laughing unrestrainedly to old Sam Kinison videos, Kirk's favorite comedian. The whole event was inappropriately sentimental, but morose. In my mind, an all too common cry for help. I may have been victorious this day, but not unsurprisingly, I failed Kirk.
I believed that on the present, fateful night, as he waved a gun directly above me, his threat would be like any other time I had heard someone I loved flippantly threaten suicide. Only a threat. I was dead wrong. 

Now time was twisted, there was no time in the room. His rage-transformed face was repulsive, his glower unwavering, as he loomed over me, still menacingly wielding the gun. I gaped at him, the blood pounding hard in my ears. His brow was furrowed, showing his disorientation and inability to collect himself. Deluged with aggression, this ticking time bomb was not the Kirk I adored. 
He began to pace the apartment like a restless tiger in a cage; unrelentingly wandering back and forth, back and forth. Kirk sustained his patrolling pace, but increased in tempo, making me feel hysterical. What’s going on? This started from a quick stab of jealousy from an overly hormonal pregnant teenager. I blinked back tears and tucked my legs tightly beneath me on the couch, it somehow made me feel safer. 
I dipped my head up to look at him. I wanted to up the ante of rationale. “Put down the gun Kirk, you’re really scaring me,” I pleaded, suddenly needing to clear my throat. He hesitated and glanced sideways at me. He allowed the weapon to drop to his side, but held his grip. I was appreciative the gun was not pointed at his head. That fragment of relief was all too fleeting. 
I nervously stroked the leg of the coffee table with my foot; I had no idea what to say or do next. He took a menacing step closer. In a defeated tone I asked him, “Why in the hell are you doing this to me? closed. I bristled, stock still. I know it sounds cliché, but everything slowed down, as if I were watching a movie. Overcome with fury, he squeezed the gun’s base so tightly, his knuckles went white. Knowing what was coming next, his face went taut, and he scrunched his eyes shut. No, no, please no! Even though time stood still, I had no time to react.
A loud pop echoed throughout the room, Kirk’s head jolted back. It didn’t sound like a gunshot, it sounded like a fire cracker, until Kirk fell heavy weighed down, the flooring quaked beneath him. Thud! I fluttered my eyes open and closed, trying to block out the image that was playing in front of me. But he didn’t evaporate, this wasn’t a dream. Kirk lay there unnaturally still, like a broken mannequin. I felt like running away in panic. This can’t be happening. What do I do? What do I do? Call for help! 
I leapt for the phone in a panic. Flustered, I dialed 1411. Oh God, I can’t remember the number for 911! Trying not to lose control, I keep dialing: 1411, 141, 411, 119, no 911! 
The emergency operator answered, and I blurted out in a combination of tears and screaming, “My boyfriend shot himself!” I urgently gasped for breath. 
“Where do you live?” she calmly asked. 
“I don’t know,” I lowly whispered. I really did not know! The shock hit me that quickly, and I was as helpless as a child. It was as if a black Kirkain went up right in front of me and I was jumbled and disoriented. 
“What’s your name?” She professionally questioned in a melodic tone. 
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. My reality was warped, I was in an emotional blackout. Just like an unsafe surge of electricity will trip a circuit breaker, a sudden trauma can trip our emotional "circuit breakers," provisionally. My breakers were tripped. My life had completely changed in the blink of an eye, as fast as a speeding bullet tearing through tissue.
“It’s ok honey, just stay on the phone with me.” Her voice was composed and soothing, I could hear her typing quickly. I felt less frightened somehow, just knowing she was with me, but I couldn’t be comforted. 
“The police are coming sweetie, I need you to step outside with your hands out to your side, can you do that for me honey?” Her engagement kept me from total darkness. 
“Yyyes, I‘m going, going, outside, go outside now,” I wasn’t sure what I was saying as I grappled with the doorknob. My hands were clammy from the upwelling terror, making it difficult to clench the slippery brass knob. I’m trapped here! The horror intensified when I thought I couldn’t get out. The air was tainted with the smell of blood, of death. I looked back to see Kirk, impulsively terrified that he would be standing right behind me. The bullet’s entrance had made shrapnel of his temple, and blood oozed down his head. He would be reaching out for me, wanting vengeance. 
But he remained in a twisted knot on the floor, blood pouring out of the burned cavity in his head. Through the deafening confusion, I unexpectedly heard concentrated, deep, long breathing. I jumped, tasting my heart that had jumped into my throat. Was it my imagination? The deep, bottomless breathing continued. I realized it was coming from Kirk! As if he was in a comatose-like sleep (but alive!). Excited, but scared, I took an experimental step towards him. Small blood bubbles were materializing in the cerise puddle under his face, gradually seeping and expanding outward on the carpet. He’s alive! Oh my God, he’s breathing! 
“He’s breathing!” I squealed, almost dropping the phone. My mind remained shattered into a million pieces. Was I breathing? I dragged a deep breath into my lungs, it was difficult to inhale. I desperately wanted to turn him over, but I was immobilized with fear. I was too cowardly to touch him. The operator began typing faster, then repeated her request that I step outside the apartment. Wiping my clammy hands repeatedly on my uniform to dry them. I got out, and was immediately met by five or more police officers. 
Within minutes, I was rushed down stairs and my hands were “washed” for traces of gunpowder. An emergency service officer looped long medical swabs up and down my trembling fingers. All I could think about was what I would say to Kirk when he “woke up.” Would I hug him, hit him, or both? I couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t orientate myself. I nervously twirled my engagement ring on my finger. I refused to accept what was happening. My brain may have known this was his death, but my heart stubbornly insisted on Kirk having immortality. Kirk. Is. Not. Dead. 
The rattled young officer had no idea what to say to me. He fumbled for tissues to wipe the blood from my face. I allowed my chin to rest lightly on his one hand, while his other dabbed at my cheeks. I drew in the deepest breaths I could, but only wheezed. The cop kept whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and shook his head from side-to-side. I stood motionless, saying nothing in my trauma-induced fog. 
Despite my best efforts to look elsewhere, my gaze managed to stray back towards the apartment. A cluster of medical technicians were carrying Kirk’s body down the circling complex stairs. Five or six emergency techs strained while carrying his body, he was too large to move around the encircling, sharp corners on a common stretcher. A urine-yellow streetlight illuminated a crimson U-shape of blood under his tightly wrapped, mummified head. 
He was unhurriedly lifted into the back of the ambulance, the doors were closed slowly. Hurry-up! He’s breathing! I wanted to scream out for some haste. Sluggishly, the ambulance drove away with my dreams. There were no lights flashing or loud sirens blaring. There was nothing to indicate a rush to save a life. I suddenly understood why. The life inside was already dead. The despair and gloom began to consume me, until it was seamless. I cupped my hands over my face, rubbed my swollen eyes, and clawed through my hair. My fingers discovered a small piece of skull twisted up in the strands. Vomit shot into my throat and my heart chilled.
Since my parent’s second divorce, my mother lived hundreds of miles away, so my father remained my sole hope for emotional support. I rushed to his house and rang his doorbell too many times. My nerves abraded. C’mon dad, answer the door. Finally, I saw him and felt a gust of relief, immediately wanting to coil myself up in his arms. He pushed open the flimsy screen between us, but looked at me as if he didn’t know me. He surveyed me curiously. It’s late, he was probably asleep. I wanted to explain what had just happened, but how could I? I found myself pantomiming with gestures until I found my speech. 
“Dad, Kirk sh…shot himself,” I was panting for breath. 
“Are you okay?” He asked. An absurd question, of course I wasn’t “ok.” 
I answered a bit sarcastically, “I guess I’m okay Dad, I have to go to the hospital now.” I wanted him to grab me and pull me into his protective arms for a perpetual hug. Desperation seeped from my every pore. 
“Alright then, I’ll see you tomorrow Sweet Pea.” His duplicity was confounding as he casually closed the door. My breath left me. I teetered on his door-step, staring at the closed door for what felt like hours, but he didn’t return. Is this a joke? Should I knock again, did he not understand what I just said? My eyes filled with tears. A few more bewildering minutes passed. I opted not to call on him, ringing his doorbell again. I was too devastated by his detachment. I would have to go this alone. 
I had no idea that beyond the cracks of that pasty porch, my father was battling his own demon; an intense struggle with alcoholism. He would barely remember this night, he was too tanked-up. I couldn’t realize that this memory would haunt both him and me later on in our lives. 
Everything around me appeared like dream images without substance, but I drove to the hospital by myself. Knowing I couldn’t manage the tangled interstates today, I have no idea how I pulled it off. I called Kirk’s father before I left. He was already at the hospital, but that was of little solace to me. Our relationship was characteristically absent, not bad, but just “not there.” 
Under the hospital’s pinging fluorescent white lights, the somewhat detached doctors began to natter about a full subarachnoid hemorrhage and blah blah blah. At that moment, all I really heard was that Kirk was dead. I felt defeated. I must have worn a blank expression, because a troubled look crossed one of the doctor’s faces. 
He asked if I wanted to see Kirk. “No,” I responded too quickly, solely out of blubbering spinelessness. Terrified by what gruesome relic might remain in the husk of Kirk’s body. Looking back now, I wish I would’ve said goodbye. 
The silence in the room was disturbed when the fledgling younger doctor asked me straightforwardly, “Are you pregnant?” I jumped a bit at his personal knowledge about me. Surely the physicians couldn’t tell, I was only about eight weeks along. Kirk’s father must have told them. I weakened, recapping my newfangled reality. I nodded my head up and down, indicating yes. “I’m sorry,” was all he said as he bowed his head. Why did he even bother to ask, to probe into MY life? Both doctors scuffled out of the room in haste. I stumbled in their wake. I was sick of hearing “sorry” from everyone already. 
In my (measly) opinion, due to the lack of research at the time; doctors, psychiatrists, and therapists stagger in the dark when helping witnesses to suicide and even survivors of suicide. In retrospect, it’s not that I expected this doctor to sit down next to me, throw an arm around my shoulder and offer to have an “International Coffees” moment, but if one of the doctors would’ve offered a simple suggestion to pursue assistance for single mothers, it would have been more kind than making me feel like a curiosity. I presume they had merely confirmed to each other that fact was stranger than fiction. 
A moment of comfort came when there was a collective agreement between Kirk's family and myself to donate any organs that could be used to help another person. I often think about who that precious gift helped. Kirk's skin was bequeath his skin to burn victims. Every time I so much as burn my finger, I think of blistered and scorched skin supplanted with my Kirk’s ultimate contribution.
I’d been living with Kirk's dad for over a week, sleeping in Kirk's childhood bedroom to feel closer to him. Kirk's dad wasn't really the lovie-dovie type, so his hospitality was generous, if not uncommon. 
I hurt all over, inside and out. I was particularly susceptible at night. Living in his room helped me to briefly stretch actuality, prevent reality, and award myself with a fabricated impression that I was still close to Kirk. It felt like he was permanently near. Although unhealthy in the long-term, I needed to believe he was still there. 
Whenever I risked closing my eyes, I saw Kirk with a gun trained menacingly at his temple. His skin was pale, but his lips were reddish pink. He suddenly squeezed the trigger. His head jolted back, and his limp body twitched on the floor. When I woke screaming and trembling, Kirk wasn’t there. I floated my hand over his “typical” side of the bed, where he slept. The sheets were cold, devoid of any warmth, nobody had laid there. I stirred, trying to cry myself back to sleep to take a crack at a different dream.
The Telltale Heart
A day or two later, I returned to the apartment alone to undergo the dreaded and frightening task of packing up my paltry pile of belongings. Gritting my teeth, I opened the front door gradually. As soon as the door crawled open an inch, the pungent stench of death hissed through the crack. I stiffened, the odor was so nauseating that I suddenly fought off the bile clambering up my throat. Thump, thump, thump. Bargaining with terror, I left the door half open.
I scattered newspapers over the primary blood stain in the center of the floor, but like “The Telltale Heart,” it seemed to call out to me, adding to the remarkable fear. Thump, thump, thump. I swore I overheard the solid pounding. 
Priorities first; I searched out Kirk's jacket, holding it up to my face and inhaling deeply. His scent had disappeared, too much time had passed since he’d worn it. 
Thump, thump, thump. 
I uneasily rubbed the coat's collar and tried to smell again, as if the jacket were a scratch-n-sniff. Nothing. Disappointed, I folded it carefully and placed it a “special” box, with all my most important items and documents, which wasn’t much. 
I was hastily filling a battered liquor box in my kitchen, when an unexpected knock at the door startled me. A terribly regrettable oversight was about to knock the breath out of me. A peppy mail carrier handed me a box containing an elegant set of embellished silverware. I couldn't help but envy his cheerfulness, as well as despise it. I promptly searched out the gift card, and gasped in disbelief. The grief hit me like a wave. I felt like I was drowning. 
The elegant, gold script writing stared up at me: “Congratulations on your wedding. We love you. –Nana and Gop.” God help me. The reality struck, I had gone from planning a wedding to planning a funeral. 
I staggered out the door to get some fresh air, struggling to quell the tightening of my throat. I threw myself to the ground, weeping. Opening my eyes, I felt mocked, yet again, but this time by our friendly tan “Welcome” mat under my face. I could not stop the unconstrained pain released through my tears, sniveling in agony. My thoughts were interrupted by the prospect of single motherhood. You’re alone and pregnant Heather. 
Finding Out 
“Hi there, this Heather’s mother.” My mom was calling my work, sprightly and chipper, puzzling my manager. 
“Uh-huh, I’m so sor-“Mom cut her off, still motivated by her celebration plans. 
“I’d love your help. I need the addresses of Heather’s co-workers so I can throw her a well-deserved bridal shower!” Mom’s enthusiastic request made my manager realize that she observably didn’t know Kirk was dead. Mom had no idea, and she didn’t want to be the one to tell her such devastating news over the telephone. 
“Please call your daughter,” she really had no idea what to say, insisting that mom call me, but mom heard the wobble in her voice and demanded she tell her what was going on. Mom could be convincing. 
“Kirk shot himself.” My mother dropped the phone. 
Discovering Kirk’s death from a virtual stranger, mom called me and we talked, but I have no recollection of what either one of us said. Or any conversations for that matter. I remained vacant, I just “wasn’t home.” I had gone fishing, I was out to lunch, not playing with a full deck; just bizarre behavior. Now that my family knew Kirk was gone, they were about to take advantage of my turmoil.
“It’s much too late, for goodbyes.” (Julian Lennon)
The day was eye-stingingly sunny, relentless warm hugs burned cheerfully on my neck, making me feel ridiculed by Mother Nature herself. I couldn’t believe I was standing at Kirk’s funeral, the cruelty amplified from the unkind, stifling heat and lack of even a slight, soothing breeze. Nothing felt real or tangible; except pain. I was not asked to have any part of the planning, but because of the prolonged shock, I couldn't have helped anyway. 
I don't remember much from that dreadful day, other than feeling and literally seeing the sticky Texas heat shimmering off the rows of crumbling headstones, like electric luminescence. I loathed the people walking around the cemetery’s sidewalk who were continuing to play out their lives. Annoyed at these carefree individuals, without “real worries,” like being eighteen, pregnant, and burying your fiancée. 
I just wanted to go home and turn the clock back five days, flee from this nightmare. I whispered goodbye to Kirk, but not only to him, but also to our impulsive, but very real dream. My spirit seemed to fade away and my vitality waned. I cautiously folded our baby’s, his only child's first sonogram picture and placed it into the diminutive cranny that now held his cremains. We cuddled in his favorite “Garfield” stuffed-animal too, and sealed the niche with the priest’s prayers. Such an enormous man was now reduced to a small alcove. It felt so, wrong.
The tangled webs we weave
“Heather, this baby will be a consistent reminder of Kirk’s brutal death,” my mother asserted. Right our of the blue, only days after Kirk's death. My family desperately wanted me to “forget this dreadful trauma and move on with my life.” They didn’t understand why, at my age, I wanted to keep this baby and they insisted I have an abortion. Time now felt like my enemy. I suppose that’s why it’s important to never make any major life decisions after a suicide, because the anguish you’re left with often distorts your ability to handle changes and make clear choices. My parents didn’t heed such recommendations, and refused to merely listen to me and respect their grandchild. Both of my parents felt like their daughter was experiencing horrendous circumstances, and aborting this baby was analogous to a “victim of rape” option. Their point of view was; how could I possibly move on and forget what had happened since I’d be raising Kirk’s baby, he’d always be part of my life. They didn’t know what they were asking me to do. They continually lied to me, trying to coerce me to terminate my pregnancy. Both were sure I would “resent” the child one day because of what Kirk had done. I still refused. Neither of them understood what I already knew about abortion. It was not an option. 
Conversely, I was terrified of losing my baby and wrestled for his or her life with everything in me. After Kirk died, I felt like there was nothing left, no life within me, and no life to live for, until I thought about the precious baby I carried. I longed for our baby. 
I knew how “bad off” I was, Lord knows what my unborn baby was feeling in my emotional roller-coaster of adrenaline blasts and severe depression. If babies sense, feel and even taste what their mother’s experience, and science tells us they do, then how could a baby, no longer than a tube of “Chapstick,” survive such an ordeal unharmed? 
I was horrified to use the bathroom. I envisioned having a miscarriage night after night. I was afraid to pull down my pants, unsure of what I might uncover. I feared my underwear would be overflowing with blood clots, blood pouring down my legs. Latent on my panties is the lifeless body of my perfectly formed baby, partially submerged in tissue and bodily fluids. She has every finger and toe, but dark spots could be seen under her tissue thin skin. It was so disturbing, this illusory hurt was unyielding. I wanted this baby so desperately, I sought out hope and protection, leading me to religion. 
I began to pray to God. I didn’t know much about prayer at the time, but after staring death in the face, I urgently prayed for help to keep the severe depression at bay, at least until I had my baby. Even though I wasn’t a “real” Christopher tian, I began to wear a cross around my neck. It made me feel safer, more secure. 
The phone rang, and I was guardedly incited when my sister, mother and father asked me out to an all-you-can-eat cafeteria for lunch. Even depressed pregnant women rarely turn down a free meal, especially one that’s buffet style. My stomach rumbled in anticipation as I confirmed my attendance, adding that I would be more than happy to join them. My parents hadn’t given up on abortion and had formed another plan. This wasn’t going to be some peaceable, communal meal, it was a conspiracy to try and persuade me into believing that “abortion was my only option.” 
I was hiding as much as I could behind my long hair, it was still awkward being out “among the living.” I didn’t like seeing people, especially happy people, and I didn’t want them seeing me. 
“I have some bad news I need to tell you,” my mother began the deliberate story. Those ten words meant trouble, more pain, making me tuck beneath my tresses more. I stopped moving bits of food around my plate and looked up at her. My appetite vanished, a graveyard stillness filled the air. She let out a heavy sigh, as if this task was daunting and her words too grim to voice aloud. 
“Heather, honey, you cannot have a baby.” As if in critical, loving concern, she picked up my hands and held them in hers. Her expression was surly, melancholy. I’ve continually been fascinated with mom’s acting capabilities, I was sure she could stand-in for Judi Dench at a moment’s notice. 
“You have an inherited genetic disease, and you can’t have a baby. It will die anyway,” she lied. I was repelled by her feeble story, but still squirmed in my seat. Oh right, nice try mom. Amusing zinger.
“Oh pu-lease, you know that’s not true mom.” I confidently searched my father and sibling's face quizzically for disparity, but neither disagreed with mom. To my shock, both were stone-faced, or bobbing their heads in accord. The hush between them sustained. This can’t be true? Fear quaked through me like pulsations through a cable. A shiver went up my spine, my palms dampened with sweat, and without warning, I became so nauseous, I just about threw-up Luby’s “best country fried-chicken” in front of the entire restaurant. 
“You’ll die even trying to carry the baby.” Mom unrelentingly persisted, now supplementing the terrorizing, morbid fib with threats of my demise. The flurry of agony that coursed through me felt more excruciating than Kirk’s death. All I had left was our baby, that small seed of hope, and I was coerced into uttering goodbye to my now pulverized future. No way, I'll die first! 
“Then we will die together!” I bawled at them defiantly. Through the haze of my tears, my father distorted into a blurred form, staring at the floor and shaking his head. The burning tears filled my eyes, and my heart ruptured, all o'er again. Oh my God! Oh my God!
With the silent agreement of my father and sister, I believed I was hearing the tSteve's mom. For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to really want to die. I was so empty inside, I didn’t even “feel pregnant” anymore. How could I feel so hollow, so empty, and be with child? I wiped my hands wearily down my face. No! Why me? In my jumbled torment, if I had a gun, I would’ve shot myself at that moment, right there in front of them. I was that deeply disturbed and all-consumed by depression. 
I reached up to yank that cursed, no-good cross off my neck, sure God had rejected me. I was shattered in pieces, pounded down like a trampled puppy. How could “He” do this to me? I didn’t feel “protected” or comforted by the idol. Before I could give the chain a suitable jerk, my sister seized my arm with tears in her eyes, pleading with me to stop. I did, but begrudgingly. 
I couldn’t frown or smile, the agony was like a living beast. My belly was a cesspool, unrelentingly churning in revulsion. Perhaps seeing the despondency on my face, or not wanting to be blanketed with vomit, my parent’s intimidation ended for that day. They would try to persuade me to abort again soon, in an even more violating and detestable manner. 
Teardrops that Tango:
Where is the love?
“It is difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.” (Voltaire)
As the shock began to marginally wane, I still felt drugged, vulnerable, and helpless. I felt absent, like a nomadic drifter with no resolution in sight. I had no one, owned nothing, and was beginning to feel nothingness. I felt alone. Alone with the struggle. Alone with the violence. Alone with the emptiness and guilt. Alone with an anger inside. The National Institute for Trauma and Loss in Children, suggests when someone witnesses a violent death, the resulting issues and feelings of powerlessness can consume them with “intrusive thoughts, relived experience, and residual feelings of overwhelming terror.” They’re unmistakably correct, but it’s not rocket science. I would relive the night Kirk died in my mind a million times, repeating it in a neurological loop, until I received help. 
I really had no choice but to forgive my family. I needed their emotional support and love, and with a bit of luck, an acceptance of my baby.
The Web Tangles
As soon as we pulled into the doctor’s office parking lot, my heart rushed with appreciation and my tummy fluttered with excitement. Finally, my mother and father had accepted my “choice” to keep my baby, and even offered to pay for me to visit an OB/GYN to, "make sure everything was OK." I was waiting for Medicaid, but thanks to them, I could see a doctor right away. I was desperate for a doctors assurance that my baby was healthy, still recognizing that it would be miraculous if I did not lose him/her. I couldn’t cope with any more miscarriage hallucinations. 
We parked, and I almost found myself skipping to the front doors of the doctor’s office they had chosen. My mind was racing. Would I be able to see our baby on a sonogram? My parents were paying, so they checked me in and we began the customary, tedious wait. The waiting room was typically boring; a medium-sized fish tank and various magazines strewn about on side tables, but nobody was smiling. Everyone seemed downcast and talked softly. I could almost feel despair in the room. It gave me the heebie-jeebies, and I didn’t know why. I slid my hands up and down my arms vigorously, to warm the chill of the room’s brazenness Something about the “feel” of that office was all too recognizable to me, but I couldn’t place my fear. Obviously uncomfortable, I sat between my parents like a little girl. I may have well been bobbing around with pig-tails and cotton lace bobby-socks. You can do this Heather! I gazed at the drab paisley carpet until my name was called. 
I fidgeted on the examination table in anticipation. Craning my head back, I saw a silly puppy poster on the ceiling. Oh, the embarrassments of being a woman. I swung my legs back and forth on the table like a giddy adolescent. I hope they’ll let me hear the heartbeat today. I imagined the quick rabbit-paced thumping of my baby’s tiny heart-beat, a sound I would never ignore again. I couldn’t help but form a crooked smirk and snigger out loud. I knew I was doing the right thing, and I was truly exhilarated. This baby gave me hope. 
There was a quick knock, and the doctor entered the examination room. He barely made eye contact with me and wasn’t asking me any of the common questions I expected, like “when was my last period.” I began to feel uneasy as I watched him squeeze on a pair of latex gloves. He told me lie back on the examination table, put my legs into the stirrups, and allow my thighs to relax, so I cautiously did. 
“Comfortable, Miss Hager?” He asked in a formal, but honey-toned voice. 
“Yessir, I guess so, I-” I shifted on the table, my legs quarrelling against the strain. 
“Good, are you ready?” He cut me off, motioning for a nurse to assist him.
Ready for what? Alarms started to go off inside my head as the nurse hauled around a machine and instruments I had seen before, in nightmares, in real life. I sprang my head up, questioning him about what I was preparing for. The doctor moved closer, within feet of my virtually naked body. 
He dispassionately replied, “To terminate your pregnancy.” 
What the hell? I jumped off that table as if it were on fire, stumbling out of the stirrups in the process. My stomach twisted with nausea. My God! They brought me to an abortion clinic! I couldn’t believe the betrayal. That was it, I had taken enough. The abortionist received the lion’s share of my pent-up fury. I snapped, accidentally spat, and screamed at him until my face went scarlet and literally felt hot. My throat was seared and raw, but I was still screaming as I slammed through the front doors, leaving without looking back. The puzzled faces in the waiting room couldn’t divert their curiosity, watching me stamp away, stunned. I didn’t communicate with either of my parents for weeks.
Reality?
Dream and reality were mingled. Life felt grossly unfair. The depths of my misery hit me in my very core, I felt totally responsible for Kirk’s death. In the days, weeks, and months immediately following the trauma of suicide, the grieving survivor is at the highest risk of depression and/or suicide. The unwelcome presence rears its ugly head the entire first year, and the grief-sticken friends and family need a great deal of understanding and encouragement. I was in significantly increased danger, but only the research in medical books knew it. I had been violated, betrayed, isolated, and heart-broken. Please God, I can’t take much more of this. 
My mind kept saying “I should have” and asking “what if?” Did he pull the trigger because of something I said, or didn’t say? Was it something that happened, or even the fight itself? Why did I even allow him to bring that stupid gun into my apartment? Why didn’t I call the police five minutes before? Why... What if? It really didn’t matter; I blamed myself. In my predicament, I was vulnerable to this inexplicable, augural fear; unmistakably experiencing (medically untreated) severe Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and receiving no help. I was on my own. I couldn’t afford a counselor or therapist, and I knew of no other provision for mental health, so I didn’t even search for psychological assistance. I knew that I needed help, but didn’t know who to turn to. 
Moving On
My parents cooperatively acknowledged that I was keeping my baby. Although I was still wounded by my father for his deception, endeavoring twice to coerce me into abortion, I left Kirk's fathers home, and moved back in with my dad. Back to the bleak, void apartment, that ponged of stale cigarettes and sometimes made me feel down. It was my only option, but I didn’t seem to “fit in” there, or anywhere. 
It started to hurt to smile. I couldn’t control how to feel again. When you don’t want to hurt or feel, death can seem like a fantasy, a dream, even a wish. Mortality is something you dream about and yearn for, like Hemmingway or Poe. But when you see death as I did, upfront and in person, there is nothing poetic or beautiful about it. Death is ugly. It’s unsightly, bloated, ice-cold, sometimes bloody, and, in the case of all suicides, always wrong. You would think suicide, in particular, is such a dark unlikelihood for repeating, but statistically that’s incorrect. As unusual as it may seem, as the layers of suicidal guilt slowly peel away, there’s a new, monstrous guilt lingering in its place. Life sometimes felt dark and confusing, with no visible light at the end of the tunnel. I searched for “secrets” because I couldn’t believe my own mind anymore. 
“Living” in inertia, sleep became my closest ally. This is where I “dropped anchor” for too long. All I wanted to do was sleep, leave my harsh reality and dream without living. To be void of life, but still in control. Sometimes, the fitful, black nightmares were horrific (I still have them to this day, albeit less often). It was devastating to be re-experiencing the night Kirk died in all my waking hours, and also in my dreams. When I awoke in the middle of the night and felt cold in bed, a knife blade of fear went through me as I realized I wasn’t dreaming; Kirk was really gone.
Hopelessness
After a couple of days, dad went back to work and the apartment was vacant. I was alone and depressed. Nobody knew what I was doing, or the depth of my misery. I didn’t tell anyone that I was dwelling in unforgiving depression and shameful guilt. Both were so unfathomably painful, my emotional state of mind seemed to somehow materialize with a volcanic abruptness. In maximum self-destruct mode, I was exceedingly fatigued and lonely. 
My crumpled clothes formed a disheveled mound on the floor, an illustration of my unruly state of mind. Naked and feverish, I spotted my reflection in the mirror. The woman in the mirror was repulsive. At a tipping point, I regarded my own my flesh as heinous, certain I was disgustingly foul. The mirrored image distorted, and this Rubicon past death being the Grim Reaper was pointing his bony finger at me. I was a curse, my whole life felt like wasted energy. I wasn’t preparing myself for a “typical” bath. 
Warm tears streamed down my cheeks in rivulets and my body began shuddering involuntarily. The warmth of the bath didn’t soothe me. I couldn’t rationalize anymore, and pushed a razor blade into my left wrist. My shoulders tensed and I clenched my jaw, squandering up the nerve to rip the blade up my arm, but suicide can be a formidable challenge. I spent some time bidding up the blind and thoughtless audacity to carve up my flesh. Waste the most precious gift I’d ever received, my life. Although I felt like I warranted acute torture, I thought my death would be painless, particularly compared to Kirk’s. 
It honestly felt like there was a phantom, opposing magnetic force pushing the blade away from my wrist. I exasperatingly sliced at my wrist four or five times. It looked like I scarcely broke the skin. I drew in deep breaths, marked by my failure. Don’t be a wimp! In my weariness I attempted to summon up more “courage” to destroy myself, but noticed the glinting water below me. I froze, eyeing my belly. The water had exaggerated my lower body like a circus mirror. I looked down at my flat tummy, now amplified by the water. I stiffened. What am I doing? My baby!
A leap of logic slapped me across the face. My heart pounded, and a cold chill chattered through my body. I may not have felt or looked pregnant, but I couldn’t lie to myself. I had a tiny babe inside me, Kirk’s baby; our precious baby. The same little peanut I fought tooth-and-nail against my parents to protect. How could I even consider destroying my angel? I heard a still, soft voice in my head. It was reassuring and encouraging, “It’s courageous to survive, for you, and for your child.” 
Aghast, I looked at my wrist. I caused more injury to myself than I thought. Blood was dripping down my elbow. Horrified, I hurled the blade across the bathroom. It ricocheted off the wall and clinked against the tile floor. I cried out at the senseless thought of hurting my baby. I cupped my hands and splashed water over my face, over and over again, disintegrating both blood and tears. As the saltiness of my tears disappeared, it felt like a self-baptism. Why would I hurt the thing on the outside for what hurts me on the inside? A deep tranquility stole over me, I rubbed my belly in appreciation. 
“Thank you baby, I love you so much,” I sighed admiringly. I needed to live, I wanted to live and make my child proud. When I focused on the new tiny life that was coming, I gained stability by the minute. My baby saved my life, before she was even born. 
Being suicidal is the same awful behavior as my family, wanting to abort their grandchild. What my parents didn’t know or understand, was that I had already taken the life of one of their grandchildren, and I couldn’t do it again...."

END CHAPTER ONE. CHAPTER 2 SOON TODAY!

‪#‎SurvivorsOfSuicide‬ ‪#‎SurvivorsOfSuicideDay‬ ‪#‎Suicide‬ ‪#‎NationalSurvivorsOfSuicideDay‬ ‪#‎TeardropsThatTango‬ Teardrops that Tango; Survivor of 4 Suicides
National Survivors of Suicide Day
Watch the video: (Warning, Graphic Imagery) Witnessed The Violent Death Of My Fiancee. 8 Wks Pregnant W/ Our Baby
https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/proxy/CvZOEFhw-y7-kaRAGzipzJCNEUqW58t-a3xu9R8uQlmYdLUTF5B6Nm3XTES1tO01xEa572GgUfWjDbmK6wZnFQ=w506-h379
Graphic Imagery in Novel; Suicide by gun-shot. *Warning Suicide Survivor Friends* Hi Friendz! This is an excerpt from chapter one, "Teardrops That Tango" As ...
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https://plus.google.com/113804491715908841227 Yuki Asakawa : Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds (2011) Tracklista: 1. Everybody's...
Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds (2011)
Tracklista: 1. Everybody's on the Run 2. Dream On 3. If I Had a Gun... 4. The Death of You and Me 5. (I Wanna Live in a Dream in My) Record Machine 6. AKA... What a Life! 7. Soldier Boys and Jesus Freaks 8. AKA... Broken Arrow 9. (Stranded On) The Wrong Bea...
Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds (2011)
Tracklista: 1. Everybody's on the Run 2. Dream On 3. If I Had a Gun... 4. The Death of You and Me 5. (I Wanna Live in a Dream in My) Record Machine 6. AKA... What a Life! 7. Soldier Boys and Jesus Freaks 8. AKA... Bro...
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https://plus.google.com/114472184564210416317 DisObey Justin LE Honeywill : i could use a hand same time's but is a hand is that what i need i have five reason's of killing my ...
i could use a hand same time's but is a hand is that what i need i have five reason's of killing my self part of me what's to know what's the other side i wanna hurt the people that have been made me cry i'm sick of waking up to the same old lie's bored as shit sick of the same old shit everyday i hate how my life is going to wast i can't face all the prick's and go a long of what world say's sick of coping shit of prick's who don't even know me why can't you say it face to face why is the world full of snake's lie'rs i'm sick of living mum i feel life is not real world can't say how i feel anymore i have not got anymore hope dad they's noting left know what do i what to believe in i don't know anymore my feeling's are all every the place like a Shelia time of the mouth the will to live is less know everyday it just get's hard'er living with depression and anxiety stress and autism if i had a gun i would blow my brains out my head i know killing my self in that why or anyway is selfish but can't you tell my life is a live fucking hell sorry to my lil sister and my bother and mum! and dad! if you read this I've grown up everything has chanced i wake up to the same people and the do the thing's that everyday what's the point of living if everybody die's and it's get's hard'er everyday that go's by all of my past is filled with fucking lie's when we die the world just go's on spinning welling and hoping wishing and dealing with same old shit maybe new thing same time's a new thing to kill us made from government make up to kill people or just by fall out it got outta hand 
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https://plus.google.com/107044604890058343212 Ouma (Lingering Meme) : If I had a gun with two bullets in a room with you, hitler and bin laden, I'd shoot myself
If I had a gun with two bullets in a room with you, hitler and bin laden, I'd shoot myself
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https://plus.google.com/116681591108431397017 DaEpicFirestar “Dank Absol” : +Sweepz Trashoz  full king of the hill soldier of misfortune script When can I try her out, Hank? I ...
+Sweepz Trashoz 
full king of the hill soldier of misfortune script
When can I try her out, Hank? I bet she's got enough power to lift me off the ground! It's a leaf blower, Bill, not a jetpack.
Guess who's running for an unprecedented fourth term as president of the Arlen Gun Club? I'll give you a hint.
He made love to my wife last night.
Dang it, Dale.
I didn't let Bill put a personal ad up there and I sure as hell won't let that up.
Macaroon? I've got entrance-wound size and exit-wound size.
Dale, every year I vote for you just to get my hands on one of your fine macaroons.
Well, in that case, Jim, take two and vote twice.
That's a good one.
Mad Dog, cookie? Hats off, boys.
It's the First Lady.
If you're not going to respect the man, Mad Dog, at least respect the office.
Gribble, I wouldn't vote for a clown like you if I had a gun to my head.
See? Hey! Watch your mouth, Mad Dog! While you were safely tucked away in prison Dale was out there kicking ass for the highest bidder.
Yeah.
Right.
Or don't you get Soldier of Fortune in the hole? Paid ad don't mean nothing.
I bought a knife from an ad in the back of that magazine.
Said it wouldn't break off in a man's skull.
Crap.
Tell him, Dale.
Tell him about the time you assassinated that Central American dictator.
- Yeah! - Again? Gladly.
The generalissimo was guarded better than a Mafia don's virgin daughter.
We needed the element of surprise so me and my team showed up disguised as flower-delivery men.
He answers the door, thinking someone sent him a bouquet of roses.
But instead he's pushing up daisies! That's a good one.
Well, I'll be danged! An accidental discharge.
Come on, guys! Lighten up.
- Anyone want a beer? - Yeah.
- Sure.
- Read my mind.
Dale had an accideital discharge Stop laughing at me! - I'm a laughingstock! - Dale, calm down.
In a couple of weeks, I'm sure one of those guys will accidentally shoot off someone's toe, and this'll all be forgotten.
Oh, God! If that happened, I'd kiss his bloody nub.
Fresh batch of macaroons, Jim? Whoa! Don't shoot! Good one, Jim.
Very topical.
I'll just put the cookies over on the You're going down, Gribble.
And unlike your macaroons, you're staying down.
Hey, Dale, you look kind of sad for a guy who's in a propane dealership.
Mad Dog's challenging me for president and he's already got the Black vote.
Earl.
And the gay vote.
Earl.
So things are gonna be a little tense with Earl.
You're still gonna win the election.
You don't understand.
Me having an accidental discharge is like you giving a sales pitch for a grill and not even mentioning the convenient warming plate.
I can't even No.
God, no! God, yes! Mad Dog's even sent out invitations to his inauguration party.
Why did I pull my gun during the flower-delivery story? Because it makes it more exciting! But now look at me! Mommy! It's burning! - Oh, that hurts! - I'm unfit to carry a weapon.
How long am I gonna have to look at Dale moping around in his underwear? Oh, there goes the underwear.
I can honestly say this is the first time I've ever seen anyone as depressed as I am.
- It's scary.
- We've gotta do something to help him.
Tell you what, man, I broke up with a chick Just give Could give a little ol', dang ol' little puppy, man.
That's a great idea! We'll give Dale a dog.
Nice work, Boomhauer.
I have to say, I am not wowed by the puppy idea.
But here's what we do know.
A gun is a penis substitute.
So Dale losing the Gun Club presidency is like Dale losing his - Penis? - Exactly! Now, how do we give Dale back his penis? We anonymously answer his Soldier of Fortuie ad and send him on a mission even a moron could do.
When he completes it he will happily be back in his pathetic little bubble of self-delusion! And kudos to me for coming up with the idea.
Macaroon? You, too? This is Dale.
Yes, I'm calliig about your ad, It's a sky-blue Schwinn in 68%% mint condition.
I'm calling about your Soldier of Fortuie ad.
I'm paid up.
My wife sent the check last week.
I'm tryiig to hire you, you idiot, Who is this? You don't know me.
But my name is Frank! It's Frank Hill! Wait, no.
- Fred.
- Fred Hill.
Mr.
Big.
My name is Mr.
Big.
Yes, yes, yes! Are you available for a top-secret mission tomorrow? Let me check my appointment book.
Kidnap, kidnap, coup.
Sure, I can squeeze you in.
Excellent.
Mr.
Big is pleased.
Tomorrow at 2:00 p.
m.
, go to the bus station.
We'll call you with further instructions.
Daddy's back! Coconutty.
- How long we been on stakeout? - Three minutes.
- I'm starving.
- We'll get a snack after.
And I'm horny.
- Go.
- This is Mr.
Big, I tell you what.
In the lobby, you will find an aluminum briefcase underneath a bench.
Tell him to get a Twix bar from the vending machine.
Take the briefcase to the skating rink across town and put it in the dumpster.
Twix! Briefcase! What the hell are you doing? Give it.
Pocket sand! He took the wrong briefcase! Dang it, Dale! The falcon has the egg.
By egg, I mean briefcase.
Oh, and this is Dale, from the ad.
There's been a change in plans.
Your new mission is to take the briefcase to the lost and found at the bus station.
Wait a minute.
I don't recall a change in plans being in the original plan.
What exactly am I carrying in this case? I'll ask the questions around here, Gribble.
And right now I don't have any.
It's drugs, isn't it? Well, if you want a mule, go to the pet store, Big! Mercenary.
"To Zander.
Happy Birthday.
Love, Daddy.
" Daddy? There's no drugs! Oh, my God, I've been set up! - Where are the drugs? - What drugs? The drugs that the drug lord will search for in each and every one of my cavities when I present him with an empty teddy bear.
I can't die on my first mission! It's bad for business! Thank God, Hank! Someone's trying to kill me! And this time I'm not just saying that to get attention! I should have known it was too good to be true.
Fourteen years I've been running that ad.
Not one call! Then suddenly, one call.
I'm being set up.
But who hates me? No one! Wait.
Mad Dog.
But who would stand to gain from killing me? No one! Wait.
Mad Dog.
Mr.
Big is Mad Dog! What? No, no! Mr.
Big is not Mad Dog! Mr.
Big is not Mad Dog.
Oh, God, I'm a dead man.
If you guys are seen with me, Mr.
Big will kill you, too! So get out of here.
Hank, Boomhauer, you got a lot to live for! Bill, you can stay or go, doesn't matter.
- Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.
- Dale, what are you doing? I'm gonna kill Mr.
Big before he kills us! Mr.
Big's gonna kill us! Quick, Nancy! Plan 51 Tango! What are you talking about, sug'? Fifty-one Tango! In the event of a hostile takeover of the Gun Club resulting in a Dale-threatening situation, I flee to Costa Rica! Why do we even have the drills if you aren't gonna pay attention? Well, I don't hear any girlish screams.
So either Dale's not here yet or he's dead.
The invitation says we're supposed to bring chips and dip.
We ain't got no chips and dip! Trespassers.
If I shoot them, I'm going back to jail.
But I can't not shoot them.
Dang, man.
You can talk about a - Bill, watch out! - What? I'm too fat! I'm too fat! Hang on, fellas.
Help is on the way! I'm okay.
This skeleton broke my fall.
Joseph, I waited at the mall for two hours.
You know I don't trust anyone else's opinion on swimsuits.
Sorry.
I had to cut my hair to make a moustache for my dad.
We're going on a trip.
- In my dad's truck? - Your dad gave it to me.
He's buying a convertible.
I wasn't supposed to say anything but here it is.
He's having a midlife crisis.
He'll probably leave your mother, and it's partially your fault.
Now, be good boys and go get my flip-flops.
They're under the couch.
Oh, and bring the couch.
See that nasty stain on the carpet? Well, you better start talking, or you're gonna end up just like the guy who spilled that red wine.
Okay, okay, just calm down.
You seem like a reasonable fellow, so you'll probably get a chuckle out of this.
- Dale's coming to kill you! - I knew it! Now, how's he planning on doing it? Hey, man, what are you talking about? I don't know a dang ol' thing, man.
Playing dumb, huh? Oh, good.
Now I get to torture you.
Jim! Go get your jumper cables.
There wasn't anything on the invitation about taking hostages.
Fifteen minutes ago we were talking about microwaving a pizza! What happened here? What's that? Man, that dang ol' cell phone.
I could be talking to Shavonne, man.
You know, we were gonna go have dinner, rent a movie you know, make a movie, too, man.
Maybe I can hit the redial button with my nose and call for help.
- It's our only hope.
- Go for it! - Beep! The number you have-- - Dale, it's Haik, Mad Dog is holdiig us prisoier at his house, Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, Hank! Joseph, forget the flip-flops! Just get the couch! Is that my dad? If he's not gonna make it home for dinner ask him if I can have his pork chop.
Bobby, you'll be having your dad's pork chop every night for the rest of your life.
Wait.
That's the saddest thing I've ever heard.
Retraction.
Bobby, you will not be having your dad's pork chop tonight or any other night.
You hear that, Hank? Bobby's not having your pork chop, damn it! - I'm on my way! - No, Dale, Just call the cops, Oh, my God! What the hell are you doing? Nothing.
I swear.
I was just calling for help! Give me that! Oh, my God! Come on.
- Get down! - No! - Dale, did you call the cops? - Cops? Relax, Hank.
You're with a professional soldier of fortune.
You are not a soldier of fortune! You're not a soldier of anything! The only soldier here is Bill, and he cuts hair.
I'm so scared.
You're nothing but a bunch of stories you read in a magazine written by bigger liars than you.
You want me to save us from Mr.
Big or not? Dang it, Dale.
Mad Dog is not Mr.
Big, I am Mr.
Big.
- No, you're not.
- I am Mr.
Big.
But I've known you since the second grade! When did this happen? First grade? It happened when you shot that stupid cash register.
We sent you on a phony mission.
No, it was more like a phony errand.
And you couldn't even get that right.
I was just trying to make you feel better without having to talk to you.
Now, which one of you fellows has always been afraid of drowning? Mad Dog, you'll want to hear this.
My friends were just asking about my work for the CIA.
Knock it off, Dale.
There's no way they'd let one of their contract killers die in a situation like this.
What? Copy that.
What are you doing? Who are you talking to? He's talking to me.
Yeah.
Copy that.
Okay, Dale.
Talk to you later.
In about two minutes, a CIA SWAT team is gonna swarm this place like flies on Bill.
You're bluffing.
Dale, shut up or you're gonna get us killed.
You know, you'd be amazed how a few flowers could really brighten up this room.
Oh, my God! Dale's flower-delivery-man routine? It's the CIA! We ain't scared of the CIA! Right, men? Jim, go in the kitchen and get my box of grenades.
- Third shelf behind the cake mix.
- No way! I'll have cake with you anytime, but you shoot your own feds! Yeah, Mad Dog! There's only one man I'd take a bullet for and he's home making my supper! So that's how it's gonna be? Well, you can put those flowers on your graves.
I'm flying free.
Oh, man! By the size of those bouquets, they're packing some serious heat.
Dale, call them off! Please, Dale! They'll listen to you.
You're one of them.
- I'll make it up to you.
I swear! - Well, I could.
But calling off the CIA seems like a job best suited for the president of the Gun Club.
All in favor of re-electing Dale Alvin Gribble who's currently running on the "Save your sorry asses" platform - say aye.
- Aye! I got 47 dozen roses for a Dale Gribble.
How embarrassing.
I seem to have forgotten all my money.
I knew he was a company man.
He's flashing his CIA badge.
But that guy's my best friend, and he'll cover me.
Holy smokes! He dropped the hammer on Mad Dog! I'll just slip away and live to fight another day.
I'll be damned if I let those jack-booted thugs put my yearbook photo all over the CNN! It got pretty hairy in there.
I've seen hairier.
Well, I haven't.
But then again, I'm not a professional mercenary.
Nice work, Dale.
I mean, nice work, Dale.
Wait a minute.
Did we untie Bill? I'm okay.
I just fell in the hole again.
One more time, Dale.
Tell us the story about how you saved all of us from Mad Dog.
Again? Gladly.
It was 3:00 p.
m.
yesterday.
The Gun Club was filled with the smell of intrigue and coconut.
I needed to know who I could trust.
So I pretended to accidentally discharge my weapon into the cash register, Mr, Big is pleased,
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