“Oh hell no! Lucy! Get the gun!” The screen door to the kitchen slams shut. Barby’s muck boots crunch down the path through the rows of garden beds all tucked in for the winter. I drop my paintbrush into my coffee by mistake and wipe my hands on my already paint splattered jeans. I don’t bother asking questions. She wouldn’t answer anyway. I do as she says.
After Danny and years of carving away at myself until I nearly disappeared completely, I found my way to Barby’s Dream House; a little seven-acre farm in southern Oregon owned by my Aunt Maureen’s college roommate. It was mid-May. The late spring air hung thick with the smell of black locust flowers. I was twenty-three and five pounds underweight with a fractured cheekbone, a TBI, and no fucking clue what I was doing. Barby gave me a safe place to land while I learned to trust myself. I had never really belonged anywhere before that.
Barby and a man I don’t recognize are having a heated conversation by the road. Her baggy wool sweater, more patches than sweater at this point, clings to her stocky frame as her hands fly around punctuating every word. Her silver hair dances like swirls of smoke around her head. He’s yelling and waving a cigarette around; his other hand balled up in a fist by his side. I don’t know who he is, but I know guys like him; entitled, domineering. I came here to get away from guys like him. I learned to shoot a gun because of guys like him.
Barby’s eyes meet mine as I come from the rear of the house to approach the strange man from behind. Her .22 rifle feels heavier than usual. Maybe ’cause I’ve never aimed it at a person before. The cold metal burns my hands. I half swallow the lump in my throat.
He hears the crack of metal on metal and whips around to meet my gaze. A mix of stale beer and cigarettes makes my head swim. Suddenly, he’s lunging at me. I don’t think. I aim low and pull the trigger.
Lizzy Haimowitz is a student at Central Connecticut State University