Chapter 7
“Life is such a glorious trauma, is it not?”- J.R. Ward
I wake with my Kindle dead on my chest, still curled up on the couch. As I’m stretching away my aches from sleeping oddly, I get the strangest idea. Post office boxes. I could rent out boxes in different towns and sign up for junk mail to go there. It might buy me more time from Ezra. Like a bird dog on a scent I pop open the laptop and hop on the USPS website. Within the hour I have three new addresses in different states under Cypress White, and I managed to apply for credit cards and have the bills sent to the different P.O. boxes. Maybe it will throw him off just long enough for me to develop some sort of plan. The light on my phone pulses on and off. I check it to find a new text from Aster.
My mug IS worth missing. Talk today? xoxo
She never was shy or humble. I snicker to myself and reply that I’ll call her in a few hours when I’ve had my coffee. As the coffee pot brews I hop in the shower and let the hot water stream down over me. I lather the shampoo into my long locks and let the scent fill the tiny bathroom. By the time I’m finished the bathroom is a wall of fog. I wrap my towel around me and open the door to let the steam out. I quickly do a scan of all the monitors on the wall. Nothing moves outside the immediate area of my trailer. All’s quiet, just the way I like it. I throw on yoga pants and a long sleeve shirt and head out to the kitchen, not bothering to tame my wet hair. I flick on the radio on my way to grab a mug from the cabinet. Ironically ZZ Ward’s Put The Gun Down is on. I can’t help but laugh at the irony. I turn it way up. I also can't help but start to move along to the upbeat tune. Before I know it I’m full on dancing as I pour coffee into my mug. I dance to the fridge for the creamer, add some to my coffee and then put it away, still dancing. Careful not to spill my precious caffeine, I hold it out to my right and swing my kitchen door open with my left hand. Not only did I do it with dramatic flair, I swished my hips and sang the chorus out loud. I can’t sing. Never could. As I saunter down my three steps to the Adirondack chairs I continue my happy little indulgence. I for a moment feel completely content. Normal. Almost... happy.
“What’s the happy dance for?” As always Bentley appears out of nowhere, scaring the ever living crap out of me. My precious coffee spills all over the front of me. I turn slowly and glare at him.
“Honestly, a little warning would be useful.” I gesture to the spilled coffee on my shirt. His eyes sparkle with amusement and it irritates me.
“You’re so angry all the time. You know that?” he muses.
“Maybe it’s just you. I wasn't angry till you showed up,” I volley back.
“Aww, you know, you might be right,” he grins.
“I usually am,” I huff and pass him.
“When you come back out, I’ll take a mug too,” he says, and smirks at me. I really want to strangle this jerk. He is so intrusive. I charge into the trailer and back to my bedroom and strip off my shirt. I tug on a new one and refill my mug on my way back outside. I do not get Bentley a mug. As I stomp down my stairs and plop into the chair I had plans of relaxing in the first time around, Bentley stares at me, mouth hanging open.
“You plan on catching flies?” I quip.
“You really are a rude bitch, you know that?” he shoots back. Inwardly I smile at his reaction. It feels nice to have caught him off guard for a change.
“Finally! I get through to you!” I laugh. A real hearty laugh. The lines in his forehead smooth out as he watches me laugh. I can’t help but notice his face go from shocked to warm and soft.
“I was actually just coming over to see if you wanted to come with me to the shooting range today.” This catches my attention and I stop laughing abruptly.
“Why?” I question.
“You’re always so jumpy. I thought maybe if you learned to handle a gun you might feel more...safe.”
“Why would you assume that I don't know how to handle a gun?” I ask carefully.
“I don't. I just know a lot of women feel better after instruction, many go on to buy their own. I’m going. If you wanna tag along, you’re welcome to, on one condition,” he offers.
“Oh? And what would that be?” I tease.
“You must fix me a coffee and under no circumstances is this to be considered a date,” he says and narrows his eyes at me.
“That’s two things,” I scoff.
“Fine, two conditions then,” he amends. I take a sip of my coffee and deliberately moan at its yumminess while I think about his offer. I’m going to come face to face with Ezra at some point, so I’m going to have to know my way around a gun. He definitely has the upper hand in that department. But do I want to forge any sort of relationship with Bentley?
“Deal,” I state as I stand to go grab Bentley a cup of coffee. His face registers surprise but I manage to play it off coolly.
*****
When we arrive at the range, or rather the vacant patch of land where Bentley swears it's okay to shoot, he sets his guns on the table and calmly talks me through them all. He is patient with me and doesn’t push me into anything. It’s almost as if he’s taught people before. He’s good at it. I find my heart racing at the sight of the guns though. Real guns. Real, working handguns, laid out on the table in front of me. My mind starts to flash back to the one time I handled a gun like these. I push those thoughts down and try to focus on Bentley’s words.
“This is a 44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun,” he says and then sets it down in front of me.
He talks me through the safety rules and tells me a bit about each of the weapons. Next he coaxes me into picking each of them up, unloaded, and shows me how you would fire them. They are heavy. That’s the first memory that hits me, the weight of it in my hand. Then I feel sort of disgusted with myself for touching them, worried that I’m forever tainted by the contact. The springs are powerful, these things are powerful. I know full well what damage they can do. I’m nervous, but having come this far, I feel I might as well continue to face my fears.
I try the revolver first. Something about it feels a bit less scary than the others. Possibly because it’s the sort of thing they use in old movies. It feels like a cartoon gun, although at no point do I forget that this is in fact very, very real.
Pulling the trigger is harder than I expect. You really do have to apply some force to it. With arms outstretched and hands shaking, I flinch and shoot. There is a loud bang, a flash, I’m jolted back a little and the whole thing takes me somewhat by surprise. I hit the target paper, not that I was really aiming, but quickly want to put the gun down, so I do. My breath comes in short gasps as the memories invade my mind.
“Magnolia...” I can hear him calling but I can’t make myself respond. “Magnolia!” I snap my head up and meet his eyes. Concern etched in his features. I lock my eyes with his and breathe.
“I’m okay,” I manage, “just...just give me a minute.” I count to ten and inhale deep breaths. I manage to compose myself after a few minutes, thankful that Bentley didn’t even bring up what a freaking mess I am. He let me have my space, and continued on like I wasn’t a freak when I was ready again.
We went through the other guns. He told me what they all were but that information went in and straight out of my head. I was spending too much time attempting to combat my desire to just run away. I shot each of them once, then twice, the bangs getting louder along with the size of gun. Each made me feel dirty. I pushed the feelings away. Compartmentalized them into different boxes in my mind. I kept, This is how I bring Ezra down, on repeat in my mind, letting my bitterness, rancor and vengeful thoughts guide me through this.
Bentley talked about making sure the guns felt comfortable in my hands. He made me hold them, walk around with them in my hand, to adjust, he said. I looked at the targets; I hadn’t done badly, but I’d not hit that little cross in the middle. Perfectionism gets the better of me so I fire two extra bullets in an attempt to hit it. I catch the white ring around it on my final shot, which apparently counts if you’re scoring in competition. Four handguns, eight bullets, one technical bullseye.
One of the guns is apparently the same type that European police use – a ‘Glock’. It is all black, weighty and really requires a lot of pressure on the trigger. These guns are designed to take people down, but they are also designed not to go off accidentally. I think that sort of scares me the most. That you really have to make that effort to shoot someone. That someone holding that gun would really have to pull hard, knowingly pull hard on a trigger, and want to shoot. I know that feeling. I know how to be that person. I know that everyone out there has that person living in them, somewhere dark and hidden. Most people never find cause to have that person emerge in them. I did and once it’s out, I’m not sure how to put that person back in the dark hole they came from, or that I want to. This is the same type of gun I raised with trembling hands that horrible day. The same gun that I pulled the trigger on. The same gun that ruined everything about me, my life.
Three hours later I climb into his truck and he drives us back to the park. Our ride, like the drive there, is silent. I don’t really have anything to say to him and he seems lost in thought.
“You did well,” he offers as I exit the truck.
“Thanks,” I say, avoiding eye contact with him.
“See you later, Mags.”
“Yeah,” I call out as I swing the door closed.
As soon as I’m through my door I let my back hit the wall as the emotions I’ve been keeping in check come at me full force. I slide down the wall and let it all come out. This is the last time I will show weakness. This is the last time I will cry. I am changing. I am becoming something else. Memories hold no place in my life now. They won't control me anymore. I am going to be ruthless...right after I let the last of these tears out.