Bet you got yourself a collection already.” He pulls the gun apart, taking me through a whirlwind tour of all of its special chambers, features, and specs. I tell myself I don’t need to know how it works, that it’s just a prop. If my mate finds me, I won’t kill him, just force him to leave.
“How ‘bout this one? She’s a hundred fifty, but for you I'll make it a clean hund-o and throw in some silver bullets too, unless you want somethin' fancier?”
“I—” I twist a hand into my blonde curls, trying to soothe the anxiety burning in my chest. A hundred dollars will mean I eat ramen for the rest of the month. “This one’s fine.”
He threads his fingers through the loops of his tattered khakis. “You gotta fill out the paperwork first.”
I take a deep breath. “Do you have a pen?”
He nods to a jar on the other side of the magnets. I stretch to pick one out, and a second too late I realize I’m using my right hand. He can see my bandage.
Shit. I scramble back to the paperwork. He stays silent. It’s only at the end, after I’ve paid with my almost-overdrawn debit card and he’s finished packing up the gun, that he opens his mouth.
“Whatcha gonna use it for?” He closes the gun case with a snap.
“What do you think?” I blink at him innocently. My ample boobs, curved belly and ampler ass are usually catnip to creeps like Edward.
“I don’t know what I think.” His lips tighten. “All I know is that you got a bandage ‘round your wrist and that I had a cousin once whose daddy beat her and she had a bandage ‘round her wrist, too.”
I stiffen. If he finds out I’m matemarked, there’s no way he’ll sell me the gun.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “She had lots of bandages. Lots of tiny cuts, until one day she got a big one.” He holds up his wrist and draws his knobby finger over it in a sharp line. “Like this.”
“You think I’m going to hurt myself?” I ask slowly.
He raises his wiry eyebrows.
I give a long sigh, unable to hide my relief that he hasn’t guessed what’s really underneath the bandage. Although he’s not entirely wrong, either. When I was fourteen, before I met my best friend Lawrence and we ran away, I thought about killing myself. Pills, though. Not a gun.
“Well?”
“No,” I say firmly. I’m probably not going to hurt anybody else, either. Here I am, wiping out the last of my savings when I’m not even planning on pulling the trigger.
Edward lowers his chin, looking at my face for the first time. “Okay. Well here ya go, then. We have classes on Thursdays and Saturdays if you’re interested.” He slips a yellow sheet of paper into the plastic bag before reluctantly handing it to me.
A dingy kind of twilight filters in from the exit, making the strip mall outside look even sadder, if possible. Better get started. I’ve got a long ride home. Sighing, I head toward the exit.
“Are you gonna kill him?”
I stop. “Who?”
“The one who got away. The werebeast that didn’t turn himself in.”
I swallow, trying not to picture my parents’ bodies. It’s hard because I relive their deaths almost every night in my nightmares. The crooked limbs, the glassy eyes. The screaming howls of the werebeasts. Every night the outcome is the same. They die. I can’t change it, and I can’t change real life, either.
“I’ve got enough problems already without going hunting for more. And even if I didn’t, I’m not that brave.” I open the door, and it gives one last whingy ding as I do.
“But that’s what’s great about ’em. Guns,” he shouts after me. “They make it so you don’t have to be.”
Chapter Two
The first thing I do when I get to the house is cram the gun into the duffle bag leaning against my air mattress. I can’t afford a real bed, even though I’ve been here for a couple of months now, and my aunt didn't have any furniture either. She was in the process of selling the house when she had the
“How ‘bout this one? She’s a hundred fifty, but for you I'll make it a clean hund-o and throw in some silver bullets too, unless you want somethin' fancier?”
“I—” I twist a hand into my blonde curls, trying to soothe the anxiety burning in my chest. A hundred dollars will mean I eat ramen for the rest of the month. “This one’s fine.”
He threads his fingers through the loops of his tattered khakis. “You gotta fill out the paperwork first.”
I take a deep breath. “Do you have a pen?”
He nods to a jar on the other side of the magnets. I stretch to pick one out, and a second too late I realize I’m using my right hand. He can see my bandage.
Shit. I scramble back to the paperwork. He stays silent. It’s only at the end, after I’ve paid with my almost-overdrawn debit card and he’s finished packing up the gun, that he opens his mouth.
“Whatcha gonna use it for?” He closes the gun case with a snap.
“What do you think?” I blink at him innocently. My ample boobs, curved belly and ampler ass are usually catnip to creeps like Edward.
“I don’t know what I think.” His lips tighten. “All I know is that you got a bandage ‘round your wrist and that I had a cousin once whose daddy beat her and she had a bandage ‘round her wrist, too.”
I stiffen. If he finds out I’m matemarked, there’s no way he’ll sell me the gun.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “She had lots of bandages. Lots of tiny cuts, until one day she got a big one.” He holds up his wrist and draws his knobby finger over it in a sharp line. “Like this.”
“You think I’m going to hurt myself?” I ask slowly.
He raises his wiry eyebrows.
I give a long sigh, unable to hide my relief that he hasn’t guessed what’s really underneath the bandage. Although he’s not entirely wrong, either. When I was fourteen, before I met my best friend Lawrence and we ran away, I thought about killing myself. Pills, though. Not a gun.
“Well?”
“No,” I say firmly. I’m probably not going to hurt anybody else, either. Here I am, wiping out the last of my savings when I’m not even planning on pulling the trigger.
Edward lowers his chin, looking at my face for the first time. “Okay. Well here ya go, then. We have classes on Thursdays and Saturdays if you’re interested.” He slips a yellow sheet of paper into the plastic bag before reluctantly handing it to me.
A dingy kind of twilight filters in from the exit, making the strip mall outside look even sadder, if possible. Better get started. I’ve got a long ride home. Sighing, I head toward the exit.
“Are you gonna kill him?”
I stop. “Who?”
“The one who got away. The werebeast that didn’t turn himself in.”
I swallow, trying not to picture my parents’ bodies. It’s hard because I relive their deaths almost every night in my nightmares. The crooked limbs, the glassy eyes. The screaming howls of the werebeasts. Every night the outcome is the same. They die. I can’t change it, and I can’t change real life, either.
“I’ve got enough problems already without going hunting for more. And even if I didn’t, I’m not that brave.” I open the door, and it gives one last whingy ding as I do.
“But that’s what’s great about ’em. Guns,” he shouts after me. “They make it so you don’t have to be.”
Chapter Two
The first thing I do when I get to the house is cram the gun into the duffle bag leaning against my air mattress. I can’t afford a real bed, even though I’ve been here for a couple of months now, and my aunt didn't have any furniture either. She was in the process of selling the house when she had the
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