She cried. She thought of the boy who endured years of abuse from kids who had nothing better to do—kids who got away with it every time. She thought of her one attempt at helping him. It seemed pathetic and small now. She should have done more. She couldn’t do it on God’s level, but she could have done something. She thought maybe God used people to help others, and he wanted her to help Jeremy. She didn’t obey, and she was the cause of his continued distress. His years of loneliness. His heartbreak.
And then she understood. It didn’t matter who wrote the psalm. That wasn’t the point. The point was to illustrate brokenness and a prayer for justice—that virtue sought by righteous people. Balance, with the scale tipped slightly in favor of goodness.
She thought of Jeremy in the tattoo parlor, head bent in reverence as the words were etched across his back. His prayer for deliverance: “Let them be like chaff before the wind.” Punish them. Make them pay. Protect me. Avenge me. She thought of his words earlier today: “It’s, like, my motto, or whatever.”
The tears froze halfway down her cheeks. She stared at the verse, her brain screaming at her to make the connection that had, thus far, eluded her. And then the chill twisted up her spine like an icy snake. Realization dawned in a flash—something she overlooked from the beginning. His tattoo was a partial verse. Partial. The second half suggested someone else would deliver the justice. But that was left out. On purpose. Because Jeremy had no intention of waiting for the angel of the Lord to deliver him.
~
I shot a 9 mm at nine years old. Dad taught me because he wanted me to understand and respect the power of guns at an early age. He took me nearly every weekend. It was a break from our otherwise strained relationship. When we went to the firing range, we were like buddies. Well, almost.
He made me load the bullets. You know how fucking hard it is to load a clip? You have to press down and in with each bullet. The more you load, the stiffer the stack, making each new bullet resistant to sliding in. Imagine doing that at nine years old.
He showed me how to slip the clip into the gun handle—smack it with the heel of my hand to secure it in place. It took several tries to pull back on the slide to load the first bullet. I just wasn’t strong enough. But Dad waited patiently. If I wanted to fire that gun, I had to prep it.
I think it was my tenth try when the slide finally clicked into place, signaling a loaded gun.
“Locked and loaded,” Dad said.
“Locked and loaded,” I echoed, eyes wide at the prospect of actually firing a gun.
He moved me into position in front of the hanging target and showed me how to raise my arms, left hand cradling my right for more stability and control.
“You’re too stiff,” he said. “Relax your elbows. Don’t copy what you see on TV. That shit’s not real. This is.”
I bent my elbows. It felt awkward. That’s not how the TV police did it. Their arms stuck straight out like arrows.
“I can’t prepare you for what you’re about to feel,” Dad said. “If something hits your face, don’t freak out.”
“What?” I cried.
“It won’t be the bullet,” he said patiently. “Unless you turn the gun the wrong way.”
He chuckled. I did, too, even though I thought it was a lousy joke.
“Line it up. See those markers on the top of the gun? That’s your center. Center it. You’re going for the chest. Drop the nose a little. You’re aiming too high.”
I listened and adjusted accordingly until Dad was satisfied.
“You ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
“One shot,” he said. “Only one.”
My sweaty hands gripped the slick, black metal. Forefinger moved a fraction to the trigger. It curled around the hook. Pull back. Resistance. More pressure. Release.
Alarming blast.
Dad was right. He couldn’t prepare me. The force of the kickback scared the shit out of me. My adrenaline kicked into overdrive. The shaking started almost instantly after the bullet shot out. I couldn’t stop it. I placed the gun on the counter and clasped my hands, but I couldn’t control the shaking.
“That’s normal,” Dad said. “It’s your first time. You get used to the power and then stop reacting like that.”
He swiped his thumb over my forehead. I didn’t even take notice of the shell casing smacking my head, apparently leaving black residue in its wake.
“This isn’t like the movies,” I said, teeth chattering. Stop with the shaking already!
Dad laughed.
“I’ve never seen actors get hit with casings. Is that normal?”
Dad nodded. “If you shoot a gun with real bullets in it, yes. You’re gonna get hit in the head with the casings on occasion.” He noted my shivering. “Calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I obeyed.
“You knew before that it wasn’t a toy,” Dad said.
I blinked, confused.
“But now you really understand that.”
Ohhhh, I got it. I nodded solemnly.
“That thing on the table there should only be used for good. You understand?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed for owning and handling guns. You’ll be the one they run to when they’re in danger. Do you understand?”
I understood none of it, but I nodded anyway.
“You fight for that thing sitting on the counter. Always. Because people will always try to take it from you. Do you understand?”
I continued to nod.
Dad smirked. “You wanna try again?”
Now that I understood. I nodded enthusiastically and took hold of the gun once more.
~
He knew he had a problem. He lay in bed that night fantasizing about his next encounter with Regan. Tomorrow! It would happen tomorrow in that greasy space downstairs: an English paper, a beautiful girl, and . . . joy.
“Joy,” he said aloud, staring into the blackness of his ceiling.
He didn’t think he’d ever uttered the word, let alone experienced it. Perfect and complete happiness. The word felt strange in his mouth as he said it again—like he was learning it for the first time—sounding out a foreign feeling on his tongue. Swallowing it whole and hoping it filled his heart to the brim. He thought he’d glow—streams of light shooting out of his fingertips and toes, eyes and ears. He imagined that’s how joy felt inside one’s body—bright heat. Impossible-to-contain heat. A sort of radiant ecstasy. Possibly manic.