The man behind the counter swings his hand up to bring my own hand down, “Yeah, the first thing you want to remember is that you never aim a gun at someone unless you mean to aim a gun at someone.”
He brings my hand down with his, and the gun settles heavily on the glass counter between us. His hand on top of my hand on top of the gun. He looks into my eyes.
I apologize.
We both bring our hands to our sides, the gun between us.
He smiles, “It’s not loaded, but you can never be too careful.”
I had not been aware of aiming at this nice man behind the counter. But as I stand there at the counter and play the moment back in my head, I see that I did. I picked up the gun and held it out before me and sighted down the barrel at a stranger.
I apologize again.
He has moved on. He lays another gun on the counter. Bullets. Protective earmuffs. Large sheets of paper on which are printed the outline of a man’s torso. Inside the torso, an elongated dartboard of ovals.
He taps the paper with a finger and smiles at me again, “Here’s where you want to aim. Right for the center of this target.”
He shows us how to load the guns.
And then we are alone in a small space that is not a room. The space opens on one side to a long corridor into which we will be firing. A button on the wall brings a clothes-lined clip to me, and I carefully clip the large paper target to the wire. Push the button again and watch as the paper man retreats to the far end of the corridor.
Mark is with me, but he is not in this moment with me.
I am alone.
I have never fired a gun before.
One of my brothers had a BB-gun when I was a kid. I took a few turns shooting at cans. But that’s it.
I pick up the loaded gun.
I like everything about this moment. I like the weight of the gun in my hand. I like the feel of the trigger beneath my finger. I like the extension of my arms. I like my feet planted slightly apart. I like the smell of gunpowder and oil. I like the overwhelming noise of the guns being fired from rooms alongside me. I like the heavy quiet that comes when I put on the earmuffs.
I like the focus that is required to aim the gun perfectly.
I like that I am alone.
I like that I can think.
I like the tension. I like the power.
I like the violence that is not violence.
I like the violence that could be death.
I like everything about this moment.
I fire the gun.
Oh, I like that very much.
And again. And again. And again.
No counting . . . just again.
Yes.
I am very good at this.
I push the button to bring the paper target back to me. Unclip it. Flatten it against the wall with smoothing palms. Caress with my fingertips the small empty spaces in the center of this dartboard oval.
I press fingers from either side of a single hole . . . my skin to my skin through the heart of a paper man.
I love everything about this moment.
I fire more bullets through more paper hearts.
The love does not fade.
When we are done, I do not want to give back the gun. It feels like mine. It feels like a part of me. It feels like the man behind the counter will see that this gun is now a part of me, and he will let me take it with me.
He does not.
Mark and I gather our belongings and walk together out to the parking lot.
To our car.
The outside air tastes weird.
I breathe deeply.
Mark and I climb into the car.
Mark turns to me, “So what do you think?”
I take a deep breath, “I think I really want a gun.”
Mark puts the key in the ignition, “OK, so we’ll get you a gun.”
I reach and put a hand on my husband’s arm, “But I think if I had a gun? I would kill him. I know I said that this is about protection, but I think if I had a gun and he was standing in front of me? I would kill him.”
Mark is quiet.
“I would kill him.”
What I leave unsaid is how very much I think I would enjoy the killing.
I reach down by my feet for one of the paper targets.
Unroll it.
I press fingers from either side of a single hole . . . my skin to my skin through the heart of a paper man.
I love everything about this moment.
Too much.
Yes.
No gun.
I recently took my first trip to a gun range. I enjoyed it and thought of getting a gun, but I don’t think I could shoot at anything but paper. My paper man is rolled up carefully, leaning against the wall in the den. I have only to look to my right to see it. It has some kind of meaning, but I don’t know what.
Somewhere in this house?
In a box with other papers from my past?
Are some flattened rolled-up paper men riddled with holes.
I can see them clearly, even though I have not actually seen them in many years.
They have meaning that I understand all too well.
Chilling.
And I understand.
Awww, see now?
I am too vulnerable.
I am teary that you understand.
Love you.
Oh darling. I don’t even know the story and I want to wrap you up in a cocoon of goodness.
I know how to shoot. My baby brother showed me how once. Not knowing why I’d want to know. I too loved it. I’m a good shot. I liked the weight of it in my hand. I too, felt safe.
I also knew, I could never, ever, ever own one. Because I’d kill him. I could do it. And that scares me more than anything.
Sigh.
Yes . . . the knowledge that I could kill him, the knowledge that I would kill him?
That I would trade my life for that moment in which I ended his life?
Yes, that terrified me.
The memory of that realization terrifies me.
The capacity for hatred and violence that I hold within myself.
And the joy I would take in its expression.
Yes.
I am so very happy that the moment for which I was preparing never came to pass.
Love you.
Yes. To all of that. Yes. Me too. That and the knowledge that even though it would ruin my family, I’d still probably do it if given the chance.
So yeah. No weapons for me.
Love you too friend.
ps. I hope you have a great time getting and decorating a tree. *hands over booze*
Yes.
No weapons for me.
I do love Christmas trees!
Yay!
Booze later.
Definitely.
Wow. Just…wow. Your gift with words is, well, a gift to your readers. Powerful. And a release for you, I’m sure, just like shooting is (to me too). Love.
I forgot to add that a lot of your posts have the absolute power of a wonderful short story. In general, I detest short stories. But posts like this, like the rare enjoyable short story, leave the reader wanting just a little more.
People who have read from the beginning of Pretty All True probably have a better sense of this story than some of my other readers.
But I do not want to make my archives required reading in order to be able to enjoy my stories.
So I am glad that I have succeeded in grabbing you with my 850-some words.
Thank you.
And I will tell more when the time comes.
As for the writing being a release?
I would not have written this story today except for an email I received from a friend.
And suddenly another’s words flooded me with this memory.
I will have to thank him for that.
I have been slowly but surely making my way through your archives. :)
Thank you!
I leave bits and pieces of things all over the place.
I am messy that way.
I think this is why guns scare me so. Because I know I could use one, quite easily, in the heat of the moment.
Yes.
Or scarier?
In the cold of the moment.
No words needed other than this was beautifully written. And because you kick ass at writing? I understood it all.
Thank you so very much for that.
Wow. That was very powerful. I don’t know the origin but I feel for you. On a lighter note, I have a gun and my hubs has nine billion and they are all locked away where I can’t get to them. Despite knowing how to handle a gun and being a pretty good shot.
Thanks, lovely you.
We have no guns.
I just can’t.
I understand “I would kill him”. The man that hurt my daughter….if I had a gun I would kill him. So…
No gun for me either.
I would like to go to a shooting range and pretend to kill him. Would that help do you think?
Or would I be tempted to run away with the gun?
It did not help me, except to make me see how careful I was going to have to be.
That as terrified as I was?
He would be the one to die.
And then my life would be ruined.
I wanted that gun.
Badly.
Sigh.
Good Point. Not really interested in ruining my life.
No shooting for me.
Yes.
Exactly.
I totally understand. I know that feeling of realizing what I’m capable of.
My husband bought me a gun. I couldn’t shoot it until I recalled the images of the pain.
I couldn’t stop pulling the trigger after that. It was a release that I craved and didn’t want to let go. It made me feel powerful. And it scared me because I saw what could happen.
But I kept my gun. I like the reassurance I feel knowing its within arms reach.
Your words are so powerful today! <3
Today?
There is nothing in my life that requires fending off except my own thoughts.
So no gun is required.
I would not feel reassured to have one available.
I am my only enemy now.
So there is that.
and that, I get.
knowing that you know that, where you are, makes you a very smart woman
Thanks, you.
Sigh.
I have sat here for 15 minutes trying to think of what to say.
I can’t say I understand. I’ve never been in that position. I can say I’m sorry you were. I hope writing about it helped.
Writing about it is only helpful in that I am trying to share my story here.
For the most part?
The emotions tied to this experience are far behind me.
But this story and what lays behind it are a big part of who I am.
So a release of sorts . . . a jumping of a hurdle into the next part of whatever it is that Pretty All True is going to be next.
I feel ya, sista. Sometimes the best thing we can do is nothing at all. At least, to keep our freedom intact. I have made that choice – gun in hand. I thought I’d regret it, but never have.
Hey, you.
The confrontation that I feared?
It never came to pass.
Instead a long period of coldish fear followed by a death to which I did not contribute.
Doing nothing worked.
But it was very hard.
There were guns – many – in my house but I did not know where. They are no longer here. Neither is the fear.
“… a death to which I did not contribute.”
That I do know, that moment of final resolution, of deliverance. I was numb; then I realized how long I’d been holding my breath – years – and exhaled.
I was numb then. But I dance now.
Yes.
Numb is a very good word.
An absence of pain.
no gun for me either. nuff said.
loved this one. all the way through to my non-paper heart.
Thanks, you.
I appreciate that more than I can say.
People?
I am off to Christmas tree it up around here!
I will be back later to have all of the last words.
I will answer all comments.
As always.
And I love you.
Your post today has the capacity to touch so many people – so many of your readers can relate to it, each in their own unique way. There is a reason(s) I don’t have a gun – two boys who shot at my daughters, the bullet ripping through her headrest and missing my oldest’s head by less than an inch, having the glass from the window cut my other daughter’s ear; the man who beat my mother frequently, whom ultimately contributed to her death; just too many reasons that bring up too many bad memories that put me in a dark place. Thank you for allowing me to read something that I could totally relate to. Something that let me know that I am not the only one who knows her boundaries, knows that allowing that dark side to come out would ultimately cause me more pain than the memories I will live with each and every day.
Your words here today?
Knowing the little that I know about you?
I am overwhelmed that you visited today and were able to connect.
Overwhelmed.
Big love to you.
Much much love.
I’ve never actually touched a gun…held a gun…or in fact, seen a gun in person. GUNS scare me…the potential for deadly harm right there in front of you, so FINAL. In some ways I want to go shooting but I’m afraid I’d like it.
For me the fear is not of the liking of the gun.
But for the liking of the power to bring an instant end to someone else’s life.
That I have known that feeling?
Felt that urge?
That’s enough to keep me away from guns.
The shooting was way fun.
The power to harm?
Too attractive.