Emotional passage on the aspects of a bullet in war: Original piece by me

Christianna Arango                                3/16/16

“BULLET”

I still remember the heat from being made, the first thing I ever felt. I went from a meaningless scrap of copper, to a cause of death. I was mixed with lead forgetting where I ended and where the lead began. Huge metallic structures took us and pulled, twisted and molded us together into a shape perfect for a black contraption used to kill. Men called it a “gun” but honestly it was I who carried the full burden of death. I was meant to penetrate the bodies of others ending their lives, stopping their heart beats. I knew there was a reason, if I didn't do my part they would come and kill the men who I came from. I don't know why they were fighting but I had no choice. My life has already been determined and chosen for me.

I remember the day I was lifted and loaded. I lay in the gun snug waiting to be free of the dark tunnel that I spent days in. The ones before me were shot and gone in seconds, I knew i’d never see them again and I wondered if they hit their mark and ended another life getting us all one step closer to victory. Soon I was at the front of the line and I knew i'd be the next to go. I felt the rumble of the gun and new it was about to happen, the moment I waited for, the reason I was made. I flew out of the gun the world passing in a blur of smoke and violence and blood. I saw the man I was headed to and I hit him entering a new contraption but this time it was made of flesh and blood. I stayed for days I knew the man was still alive. I could feel him moving clutching the spot I came through and I knew i'd failed. The man i've hit crawls for what seems like hours and I realize I hate waiting. All I ever do is lay still and wait for others to take control of my actions, my life. I suddenly become aware that if this man dies i'll lay here forever and i'm afraid. This thought never occurred to me. Now I hope this man makes it, I don't want to be trapped here forever having  to know that the  only meaningful thing i've ever done was tried and failed to kill a man.