Gunshot Wound

A gunshot wound is violence in its most direct form. A projectile penetrates your body at a speed that allows no resistance. In a fraction of a second, skin, tissue, sometimes bone is torn apart — and none of it did you see coming. Or perhaps you did. Perhaps there was that feeling — moments before, hours before, years before — that something destructive was headed toward you. That you were on a path where such things happen.

This is not to be misunderstood. The act is a crime. Responsibility lies with the perpetrator. No inner pattern in the world justifies what was done to you. And yet there is a level — deeper than guilt, deeper than chance — at which your body tells a story that extends beyond the single moment of injury. A story about vulnerability. About what led you there. And about what becomes possible afterward.