How to Get Shot and Die

Nolan Dennehy '21

Before the bullet enters your stomach, make sure you look nice and presentable; dress up in your Sunday best, even if it’s a Saturday. Get the slightly wrinkled, hand-me-down tuxedo that both of your uncles, your father, and even your grandfather wore on their big nights. Put it on, and check yourself in the mirror, to make sure your bow tie isn’t crooked. Then doublecheck, to make sure the jacket isn’t too small and the pants aren’t too big. Then triple check, just to make sure that you actually look good. After all, it’s not every day you get shot, now, is it?

Before the bullet enters your stomach, get in your old beat-up station wagon that you bought used and cheap. Start her up and get her out of the driveway, minding her gasps and wheezes as she gets going up to speed. Drive on over to the tiny little donut shop only three blocks down, and get a bite to eat, maybe even a little something to sip on. The workers there might ask you about your fancy get-up, your “formal attire,” if you will. Just give them a big old grin and tell them the good news. After all, it’s not every day you get shot, now, is it?

Before the bullet enters your stomach, haul that old car of yours into the parking lot of the local church placed right smack dab in the middle of the small town you called home for all your life. Get out of the car and thank the old girl for her trouble, and make sure to give her enough time to settle down for a good, long nap. Now look up at that old bell tower that sat atop the church you had your first bread and blood at. Look at the tiny little cross adorning the very tippy top of the tower, shining in the glow of an afternoon sun on a cloudless summer day. Now look at all the people waiting for you outside the doors of the church, all smiling and waving and cheering, all of them happy. And why wouldn’t they be? After all, it’s not every day you get shot, now, is it?

Before the bullet enters your stomach, see her walk down the aisle with her father at her side, her own hand-me-down gown flowing off her shoulders, her beautiful brown hair done up all perfectly, her gorgeous green eyes gazing back into yours. Say the words you’ve practiced in your head almost a million times for the past three months and listen with absolute adoration as she says hers. And kiss her, kiss her like you’ve never kissed anyone before, kiss her like it’s your last day on this very earth, which it just so happens to be. And walk out with her, as bells ring above you and people clap all around you. Now feel the happiest you’ve ever felt in a long, long time, maybe even the happiest you’ll be in a long, long time, even though it won’t be that long. And why wouldn’t you be? After all, it’s not every day you get shot now, is it?

Before the bullet enters your stomach, carry her into your new home, just like they do in the movies, the both of you giggling and whispering slurred words of love to each other as you stumble through the house. Now enter the bedroom and flop her down on the bed and follow suit, still fully clothed in your slightly wrinkled hand-me-down tuxedo that your uncles, your father, and even your grandfather wore on their big nights. Now feel yourself fighting a losing battle against the oncoming sleep. Try to keep your eyes open for as long as you can, even though you know you can’t. And before you surrender yourself to your own tired mind, think about how you must be the luckiest man alive right now, even though you soon won’t be. And think about how if you died, right here, right now, you’d have lived a happy life, a good life. And you will, and you have. And smile, smile for the last time as you drift away into an eternal slumber. And why wouldn’t you? After all, it’s not every day you get shot.

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You won’t hear the summer breeze’s lilting laugh gently rustle the leaves of the old oak tree in your backyard, nor will you hear the hurried footsteps coming up the driveway. You won’t hear the midnight meowing of your neighbors’ tabby up on the fence, nor will you hear the careful jostling and jingling of a lock being picked. You won’t see the stray moonbeam dancing across your wife’s serene face, nor will you see the gun barrel pointed straight at you.

And the bullet entered your stomach.

And the bullet entered your stomach.

And the bullet entered your stomach.