True Story of A Gun Death
Antonio shot and killed himself early in the morning, right outside my kitchen window. I didn’t see it. I heard it, and ran to the window to see what was going on. Antonio was lying face down, bleeding and vomiting into the cement pond. I ran out to see if I could be of any help. And, to be honest, I wanted to make sure the shooting was over.
Antonio was twitching, but it didn’t look like the twitching of life. I moved the gun, a .38 revolver, using my house key. I didn’t want him to suddenly grab the gun and start shooting even though I considered it unlikely. Then I grabbed a wrist that wasn’t bloody and found no pulse.
Other neighbors began to cautiously peer out of their apartments asking, “What happened?” I shouted, “Call 911 there’s been a shooting.” Then I ran into my apartment and called 911 myself. I told them I believed Antonio was dead but to send paramedics anyway, and that the shooting was over. The sheriffs didn’t take my word for it. They didn’t send in SWAT but they did have the paramedics wait until the detectives cleared the scene as safe (except for the biohazard bleeding into the cement pond).
What to do? Responsibility, Repression or Status Quo?
Antonio lived in the apartment next to mine for the last two decades.