What If

What if

Bradley Davidson

He had thought about it before. Probably too much. The scenarios would run through his head and depending how he felt, the outcomes would be drastically different. Suddenly coming face to muzzle with a bad guy, a thug, a bully, a psychopath, a drugged out desperado, a misguided youth, or a really dumb individual sticking a gun in his face was one of his worst fears. It was such an irrational scene. It made no sense. But it happened every day to someone, and he wondered what he would do if it happened to him.

He was afraid. He didn't want his life to end in Joe's Last Stop convenience store as he ran in for ice cream anticipating the movie the family was going to watch back at the house. He didn't want to run into that cold steel barrel while racing through life always looking forward to where he was going next. But he was also mad, angry actually, that some low-life would have the power to end his life while robbing some store or that our society would even permit such idiocy. He wanted to stand up to the injustice and vanquish it. He wanted to fight back and disarm the bandit like in the movies with some swift kicks and cleaver language and make everything right. But logic told him that wouldn't work. A gun fires so quickly and bullets destroy so permanently. And what if there were other people around and his swift actions weren't swift enough or his punches weren't hard enough or his cleaver language really wasn't witty at all. He didn't want to be the reason others got hurt.

He wondered how he would react. Would he freeze? Would he talk back? Would he attempt a swift kick or a dodge or just run. He knew he wasn't that fast and getting slower every year. Better hold tight and look for a break, a chance, an opportunity to do something. But what? Should he do nothing and act like a potato chip rack and have no influence on the outcome? Was he more than an inanimate object? Did he actually have some say as to his own destiny?

He knew he would act differently depending on his mood. In his introverted, quiet mood he would shrink and freeze and do whatever he was told. If he were having a bad day he would feel sorry for anyone that got in his way and this bad guy would be no exception. His bravado would say "It's a good day to die” as he would throw himself at the outrage with no care as to the consequences. Would his mood carry the day or would some primal instinct kick in?

All these thoughts were far from is head when he ran through one of those nondescript doors to do some trivial life business and ran into the muzzle of his despair. He had no time to think of the scenarios. There was no time to think at all. His mouth opened to utter words, and impulses raced from his brain to tell his limbs to do something, but before anything happened he heard a shot and fell. It all happened much quicker than anything he could have imagined. At least he didn't run, he thought as he faded. It was not a good day for him to die.

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