I stare down the barrel of a gun

They say the moment before you die, your whole life flashes before your eyes, but all I can think is "Why am I here right now? Why couldn't it be that old man I was pissed off at yesterday for taking forever to cross the street? Why couldn't it be the bank teller over there, cowering?" There's some serenity in this. Now I won't have to pay my parents back all that money they loaned me. Now I won't have to worry about taking my girlfriends dog out for a week, and she won't get pissed at me for not having as many jobs as she has, or not contributing what she contributes to our household. Maybe this is for the best. Maybe it's my punishment for not having a nice job and a nice family and a nice house and a pet cat and dog and two kids, Sally and Billy, and the perfect parents, and no drug habits, and no alcohol abuse, and no sorrow, just money out the wahoo and the ability to buy whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it. Was this my punishment for not being rich? Why couldn't I be the next Bill Gates? The next Mark Zuckerberg? The next genius kid billionaire? I never considered myself a lucky person, but maybe this would be the best thing that ever happened to me. People would come to my funeral and they wouldn't think "Oh, there he goes, that drunk bastard never did anything useful." no, they would look at me and say "Oh, why did he have to die so young? Oh, the torture and why does this happen to good people?" and they would remember me for what I once was, not what I am now. Maybe it's better this way.

I close my eyes for a second, accepting my fate.  Immediately, the sounds from the outside world come rushing back. Panic erupts in my head, and I open my eyes once more. The gun doesn't bring me relieving thoughts anymore, but now frustration, the desire to struggle, the desire to live. I'm frozen though. Frozen in time and space, but things are moving quickly around me. The human that the gun belongs to is yelling at me, but I can't hear him. My heart is beating too quickly, the life of a thousand people gushing through my veins, all of my ancestry trying to keep me alive, trying to give me the energy to move faster, to be faster, to escape certain death. I can feel the panic mounting, trying to take control of me, but I am the mare, and panic is my rider. I try to buck him off, but every move I make, they just hold on tighter, find a better hold on me. I'm desperate to escape, but is it even possible? I can't breath, impulsively I try to grab my chest, but my arms don't even move. Manic and panic and distraught smack my face, and I'm beginning to think the gun sees it too. The trigger finger looks worried, and I remember the scene in the movies where they tell you not to be a hero. "Okay" I say aloud, not quite sure why, it just seemed like the right thing to say.