The Tear
She fingers the cool metal of the trigger, wondering vaguely how it will feel to kill a man. Not just shoot one, but kill him, stop his life when he opens the front door. Will it be a magical moment; will she feel suddenly lighthearted, free? Will he die suddenly, or thrash across the threshold in a final spasm of life? There will be a trickle of blood, perhaps, spilling a warm stream over the hardwood floor. The imaginings are hardly new, but she clings to them, resolving that in this brief calm before she kills him she will know why. Above all, she will know why.
She reaches to scratch her shoulder and winces as her fingers encounter a still-tender bruise. Pulling the wide neck of her shirt down past the gentle bulge of her bicep, she examines the area. She's not sure whether the bruise looks better than it did yesterday. It looks different, but she doesn't know enough about bruises to tell, really. Somehow, she thinks she should – be able to tell, that is – as Simon had managed to acquire several bruises of his own, before.
Sliding the shirt back up to where it belongs, she sits back in her chair, the gun over her thighs, and watches the shadows the fan blades throw against the ceiling. By the position of the sun it's late – he should arrive soon, and then she will take up the weapon she caresses and pull the trigger and shoot him.
Before, she had no knowledge of how to load a gun. The gun lay in the upper cabinet with the lock on it, and she had never before inspected it closely, or even gained a general idea of its workings. But now she knows. Now she knows how to load and fire, and reload and fire again if necessary. She asked the man at the gun store about every detail, writing notes on the palm of her hand. Turning her hand so the palm faces up, she inspects the sweat-smudged words. It's simple, really. Just point the gun and shoot where you want the bullet to go.
Simple, really. A simple enough act for a child to perform; a simple enough act for a child of six with a curiosity bordering on obsession with all things mechanical. A simple, bare, unguarded moment of lethal curiosity. Damn. She's holding back tears, fighting them. She can't cry yet, not until she's done. There will be time later.
Footsteps, up the front walk. The unsteady, alcohol-laden footsteps of a man whose blood is corrupted by the drink he chooses, whose mind is corrupted by a death he will deny into eternity.
She rises, raises the gun, clicks the safety off, and settles the door into her sights. Her forefinger strokes the trigger, tightening slightly. The door opens.
There is a moment of absolute silence, and then there is a sound. Not a bang, not really. More of a tear.
The rending of a world?