The hammer of the Saturday Night Special revolver is lined up with my right eye. Even with a target this close, I want to make sure I don’t miss. To prove a point. My palm’s sweating against the handle, so I adjust my grip.

The Saturday Night Special model revolver isn’t a particularly capable firearm; in fact, it’s known to malfunction regularly and put its owner in danger. But it’s the cheapest I could find, and my boyfriend said we’d only be using it this one time.

I angle the sights with my eye line one more time for good measure.

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.


We all know the story of the Holy Grail: according to popular Christian mythology, it’s the cup that Jesus drank from during the last supper. It was also believed to be the container that Joseph of Arimathea used to catch Christ’s blood while Christ was on the cross.

Every free-thinking, open-minded human being on Earth knows that it’s just a myth. But Terry’s father would’ve bet his life’s savings on the fact that his son took a sip from the Holy Grail itself.

Myths don’t kill people, people kill people.


When Terry was first dragged out of nonexistence and dropped on the cold hospital floor, the doctors were lucky enough to discover that he had a very unique condition.

Congenital insensitivity to pain (CIP), also known as congenital analgesia, is a rare condition in which an individual cannot and never has felt physical pain.

There have been cases of families who didn’t know their beautiful new baby had CIP. Their child was just special and strong and withheld crying purely because it was genuinely happy, not because it couldn’t feel the intense pain of being forced out of its mother’s womb. In some cases, children have been known to gouge their own eyes out or chew on their tongue ‘til nothing’s left except a tiny pink nub of meat which they will never again be able to use to taste food. Other than that, the child can also be more susceptible to infections and disease, seeing as it can’t tell when it’s hurt, so it came as no surprise when Terry’s parents found out he had a brain tumor at age two.

Cancer doesn’t kill people, people kill people.


Glioblastomas are tumors that arise from astrocytes, the star-shaped cells that make up the glue-like or supportive tissue of the brain. These tumors are usually highly malignant because the cells reproduce quickly and are supported by a large network of blood vessels. Only about 20 percent of infants diagnosed with glioblastoma will live for five years. Even less will live for more than five years. Even less will go through the months of surgeries, tests, and chemotherapy with a smile on their face.

Terry’s stupid fucking smile.

Imagine being a white, dumb-as-shit Christian and giving birth to a baby that not only doesn’t feel pain but is also miraculously cured of cancer without any aftermath. Shit, if it wasn’t for the legal fees, they probably would have changed his name to Christ right on the spot.

Hope doesn’t kill people, people kill people.


I met Terry when I was 18, but I had already heard about him from friends and friends of friends. Everyone in town had heard of him.



The immortal.

By the time I met him, he had already been in a six-car pileup with no survivors, other than him, who walked out completely unscathed, and even if he was, he didn’t feel it. With that stupid fucking smile plastered across his dumb fucking face.

He had already survived the house fire that took the lives of his parents. Which the investigators never found out the cause of. He had already started smoking, because he had already convinced himself that he was immortal. Convincing yourself that you’re immortal is dangerous, even if you really are.

A lot of people said, “He’s just lucky.” And a lot of people asked, “How lucky can one guy get?”

Luck doesn’t kill people, people kill people.


When he first asked me out on a date, I was hesitant. I don’t know what got him interested in me, but he just wouldn’t give it a rest. He stood there with his hair parted three quarters to the left, his zip up Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie, his relaxed-fit jeans, and that shit fucking grin going from ear to ear and said he would love me for as long he lived.

And I asked how long that would be.

And he said forever.

And I believed him.

When you live every day like death is out of reach, you see the world in a completely different light. No fear of death or pain or loss, just the excitement and the unmatched joy of being alive with someone you deeply care about.

You learn to cherish every moment. Every second is a blessing.

We went sky diving. We went swimming with sharks. We went mountain climbing. And every time we did something that might end up killing us, we laughed in the face of death.

Adventure doesn’t kill people, people kill people.


When Terry asked me if I had ever thought about having kids, a realization hit me like a brick wall paved with affirmation and bullshit.

I looked Terry in the eyes, and he looked back at me with those same exact eyes he had when we met all those years ago. He looked like he hadn’t aged a single day. And I thought to myself, what if he really is immortal? I told him that if he honestly couldn’t die, then he would have to be the spectator at my funeral and his children’s and everyone who he ever cared about after we were gone.

An audience of one for all of history.

And he paused for a moment and told me he knew.

And I asked if he still loved me.

And he said he wouldn’t stop until the day he died.

Love doesn’t kill people, people kill people.


In all honestly, I probably overreacted a bit when the news came in.

But the fact that my fallopian tubes worked just fine and his testicles couldn’t produce a sperm with the will to live struck me as stupefying.

I yelled at him. Asked him why his sperm wasn’t immortal, maybe he sucked it all up for himself, that’s why he couldn’t die.

He just sat there.

He said he was sorry.

And after a while, I forgave him.

I think.


It was about six months later when he told me to go buy a gun.

We hadn’t done anything life-threatening recently.

He said he wanted to test something out.

I knew what it was when I bought the Saturday Night Special. I knew it was coming sooner or later; we both had to know.

I remember thinking to myself as I left the gun store, is his life really only worth a hundred dollars? Then I remembered I forgot to buy bullets. Make it 130.

When I got home, all the lights were off except the hanging bulb in the kitchen. Terry was sitting at the coffee table. Half a pack of cigarettes had been lit and put out in the ashtray. The smell of bourbon hung heavy around us.

He looked up at me and said, “You know what I want you to do, right?”

And I said I knew.

I took out the gun and put the bullets in one by one, making the same sound of metal sliding against metal every time. It was the only sound in the house. The chamber rolled back into place by itself and I pulled down the hammer.

Terry put his drink on the table and looked up at me with that dumb as fuck fucking smile.

And those eyes.

I don’t know if I did it because he told me to.

Or because I really thought he was immortal.

Or because I really thought he wasn’t.

Or because one day I wanted to have kids.

But I pulled the trigger and just like any other human being, just like any other mortal, Terry’s brains shot out the side of his skull and decorated our cupboards a solid pinkish gray.

His head hit the table and blood came pouring out like a cranial dam had burst and released a river made of hemoglobin.

Do you still love me, Terry?

I put the gun down and finished his drink while trying to think of how I could explain this to the police.

As I reached to grab the phone, it rang.

I stopped mid-lunge and it rang again. And again.

And I answered.

And the doctor told me I was pregnant.