When I was eight years old, my best friend showed me his mom’s .22 pistol that he had taken from her purse. He was playing around and pointing at my face. He was saying, “it’s not loaded, it’s not loaded,” and just as he pulled the trigger with it at my face, I put my left hand over the barrel and pushed it to the side. The bullet pierced my hand between my left hand pinky finger and ring finger. The only real pain was the powder burns. But, it was only a small hole. The look on his face. And I beat him unmercifully till he was down and the neighbors had to pull me off of him.
When the police and ambulance arrived, they couldn’t tell which of us had been shot, because his eyes were swollen shut, and his nose was flat on his face. And my blood was everywhere. It was pure gore.
I lost all anger and after talking to each of us, the local sheriff decided that it was stupid boys being boys.
I felt more terrible for what I had done than being shot, and he learned a lesson.
We never had any oyher fight at any point to this day. We still camp together, and go on mt bike trips. And, our kids grew up playing together. But, you know…. without firearms.