For you I'd be a double-decker beretta, because if anyone every hurt you they'd get two smoking barrels. The gunshots would do them good, the bastards, make them far holier than they ever could have been otherwise.
Gunshots can be the arrival of the heroes or the sound of them being slain.
Gunshots are the street sounds, the passing cars, of hell.
The gunshots brought back the pain; it was as if the bullet was still in his guts, as if his blood was still draining over his shirt, running warm through the coarse hairs of his legs. His stomach lurched. It was PTSD but more like a short influenza, altering him physically for the worse.
Every gunshot was the one that ripped Amy from this existence, that silenced her laughter and made dull her eyes. Every blast to the gentle air was the one that laid her warm hands so very cold. It was as if that sound had become the murderer, a brutal shout from the coldest of "lungs."