Paper targets are safe.

That’s what her dad told her once at the firing range.

But that was more than two years ago and Gary Matheson isn’t a paper target; she’s got his gun in her unsteady grip, and her father isn’t here to remind her to hold the weapon in both hands and to plant her feet shoulder-width apart — instead, he’s on the phone, and he’s telling her to fire.

To fire on Gary, who’s not a paper target; who killed his wife earlier today; who’s regaining consciousness.

Oh god.

“Shoot him,” Jack repeats.

She wedges the cell phone harder against her ear, her ribs aching from the fall from the crawlspace, and concentrates on her dad’s voice over the waterfall in her ears. “I — I can’t.”

“Kim, I want you to point the gun at his chest and pull the trigger. Now,” he instructs, the words layered with quiet urgency and something Kim doesn’t have time to identify.

She raises the weapon, but it feels like someone else’s arm. “No, I can’t.”

“Kim, shoot him now.”

She drops the phone to the closet floor. Holds the gun steady in both hands, just like her dad taught her.

I can’t —

An image of Carla’s body flashes behind her eyes, and she hears the sickening sound of Megan’s head hitting the bed frame again, sees Megan’s tear-streaked face.

Okay.

Her deep breath sticks in her lungs when Gary stirs on the floor.

“Kim, you little bitch,” he wheezes, struggling to rise.

She squeezes the trigger before she registers the twitch of her finger and barely feels the recoil. The report rings in her ears, but it’s like she’s stepped onto a movie set; the gun is loaded with blanks and the stuntman will rise any second, brushing at the crimson corn syrup soaking his shirt.

Only Gary isn’t moving now and there’s no director yelling, “Cut!”

Oh my god.

She fumbles for the phone and rights it against her ear. “Dad?” she chokes.

“Did you do it?”

Her breath hitches. “Yes.”

There’s a short pause. “Again,” Jack says, his voice firm. “I want you to shoot him again.”

But he’s already dead, no —

Her mouth opens, but her dad speaks before she can protest.

“Shoot him again now.”

Instead of answering, she tightens her jaw and tosses the phone onto the carpet once more.

Don’t think.

She pulls the trigger, but this time, she can’t stop shaking and her eardrums are buzzing.

She thumbs the safety on and retrieves the phone.

“Dad … ” She can’t make her voice work.

“Is he dead?”

She swallows, tasting the smell of gunpowder. “Yeah.”

“Okay, sweetheart, listen to me — ”

The closet tilts; her insides are Jell-O and she thinks she might vomit.

“ … I’m going to send someone to pick you up now. I want you to go downstairs and wait for them. Can you do that?”

She nods before she realizes he can’t see it. “Y-yeah.”

“Okay, baby. Hurry.”

She hears the click on his end and hangs up, her head throbbing; she needs to ignore the body — he’s just a body now — and step out of the closet. Walk out of the bedroom. Go downstairs.

Feeling like she’s watching her own movements from somewhere far away, she stumbles from the room and makes her way down the stairs, the gun still in her hand.

Though the comfort of its weight terrifies her, she holds it tight and close.

When she reaches the foot of the stairs, Kim leans one shoulder against the wall and closes her eyes. All she can see is a white paper target, bloodstained and torn, with two perfect, parallel holes in its chest.

Did you like the story? You have complaints?
How about letting the author now what you think about her work?
Feedback to wordsthatfail (Please write in English)