Diary | Primeshots Exclusive

The primers are gone. Not the ones in the gun—those I keep polished, a ritual for my sanity. I mean the ones in my head. The first shots.

They say a diary records what happened. Mine records what I almost let happen. diary primeshots

Would you like this adapted into a different tone (e.g., poetic, raw, minimalist) or expanded into a longer diary sequence? The primers are gone

I keep the .22 on the nightstand. Not for defense. For weight. Every morning, I eject the cylinder, spin it, and whisper the names of people I failed to save. The click of the hammer on an empty chamber is my confession. A primeshot with no powder. Just the sound of mercy not taken. I eject the cylinder