#MWBB Week 2-34 : Gun

Devin let his fingers curl around the grip of the Guardian in his pocket, but kept his finger outside the trigger guard. Wouldn’t do to shoot himself in the thigh by playing with the silly thing, and he’d have a hell of a time explaining it to Beverly.

Beverly, his wife. The bitch. The whore. He hadn’t slept in the same bed with her for three years, and he never would sleep with her again. “Let me think. Thomas, Frederick, William, Hans.” He grinned as his thumb slid down the short, stubby barrel of his gun. “There’s always a Hans, isn’t there?”

Yes, it was a concealed weapon. He’d even concealed it from her. She didn’t need to know about it. Didn’t need to know he’d learned to use it, learned to hit his target. It was his Guardian. The NAA was his gun. It was the last piece of pride, self-respect, and self-confidence he had. Hell, it was probably the only respect of any kind he had.

God knew no one at church or at work had any respect left for him. “Why doesn’t he move out? Leave her?” Yeah, he’d heard the questions, heard the talk. “Doesn’t he know she’s sleeping with other men?”

Yeah, he knew. But he wondered, “What would be the point in leaving?” She’d have the house. She’d have the kids. She’d have the car. He’d be broke, living in a single-wide trailer in a park named Camelot somewhere, sending her all his money every two weeks.

“That ain’t happening. Not to me.”

Hell, two of the divorces in the church and one where he worked happened because Beverly wrapped her legs around the husbands. He knew that, but he didn’t say a thing. Just went to work five days a week, came home five nights a week, watched TV, ate whatever she bothered to fix, never complained, had a beer, and then racked out on the sofa with his tablet, and searched for porn. He liked to imagine it was him fucking all the women. He left Beverly alone.

She didn’t have anything to complain about.

On Saturday, he did the yard work, washed the car, weeded the flower beds, worked in the gardens. He was the model husband. On Saturday night, Beverly went out. Devin figured she was getting banged somewhere, by someone. Maybe even another Hans. He took the Guardian, and went to the range. He wrote names on the targets. The names of the men he knew she’d screwed. It was fun, shooting Hans full of holes.

Sundays, he went out on his boat. More of a dingy, really. He got it so he could go sit on the water, watch the ocean, pretend to fish. Get away from her. Get away from everything. For a few hours. Just watch the ocean.

He carried his Guardian everywhere. Even to work. No one knew. Anytime he got stressed out, angry, or frustrated, he just put his hand in his pocket, and let his gun keep him safe. He’d never shoot anyone. Really. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not even Hans, whoever the fuck he was. No. He just liked to touch his gun, and remember he really did have the power to change everything.

Beverly? Oh, he’d never leave her. No. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He’d carry on, his little gun in his pocket, and wait for her to leave. He figured she would, eventually. And if she never left? He curled his fingers around the grip again. When it was time, he knew what to do.

When it was time.

He slipped the Guardian under the edge of the sofa, took the last chug of his beer, and stretched out. “Think I’ll look at a few pictures, then crash.” He reached beneath the edge of the sofa, let his fingers touch the barrel of the Guardian one last time, “Good night, my friend. Sleep tight.”

It was his only friend.

663 Words
@LurchMunster


This is my entry for Year 2, Week 34 (Week 2.34) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.

#ThursThreads Week #78 – I’ll See You There, Darling

Diane signed the last of the paperwork, handing it to her lawyer. “That’s the last of it, Diane. You’re now free from him.”

Free from him, her former husband. All the work, the years, the time, gone, burned to the ground. He’d started an affair with that 30-year-old whore, who was still young enough to be pretty, without the baggage of a family, or the age 27 years of marriage puts on you.

Now, he had his whore. And she had a house full of memories to destroy. It would have been easy to sell the house, move somewhere and start over. But it was her house. She’d picked it. She’d picked the furniture, painted the walls, planted the flower beds, cooked in her kitchen, done the laundry in her utility room, and parked in her garage.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she couldn’t live in it any more.

The first thing to do was get rid of the bed. The bed reminded her of the nights he’d slept with her. All the nights she’d let him explore her body. She called over her girlfriends. They helped her disassemble the thing, haul it downstairs, and out to the curb.

Good riddance, she thought. She’d hated what he’d become. What he’d done to her. “I hope you burn in hell!” she’d screamed at him when she found out about the 30-year-old bitch.

All he’d said in response was, “I’ll see you there, darling.”

249 Words (Per MS Word 2010)
@LurchMunster


I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 78. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.

The Sins Of The Mother…

It was the night of the blue moon. Wouldn’t be another for years. Cindy decided to celebrate. She put on her shortest denim shorts. The low-cut ones. The ones her momma hated. “Girl! You ain’t that kinda girl!” Momma said those words a lot. She didn’t wear a thing beneath them. She pulled out a matching top. Red and white. That ended just below her boobs. She didn’t wear a thing beneath that either. “Girl! You ain’t that kinda girl!” She laughed as she remembered her momma’s words.

She sat down on the edge of her bed. Pulled out her makeup kit. She’d bought makeup just for this night. Just for the blue moon. Pale blue eyeshadow. Perfect. Fire engine red lipstick. Perfect. The best part? The pale blue, glow in the dark nail polish. Next came the pale blue spiked heels. When she was all done, Cindy looked in the mirror. “Hell, yes!” she thought. “Girl, you do look hot!”

She picked up her blue bag. The one with the blue moon on the side. And the fairy silhouette on top of that. She opened it, and pulled out the first piece of the bright blue bubblegum. She popped that in her mouth, and started working it. Then she looked at the chest of drawers along the wall. At the picture of her momma. Momma’d been dead for two years. And still, her words kept haunting Cindy’s life. “Girl! You ain’t that kinda girl! I didn’t raise no whore!”

Then the arguments would start. The fights. The ones where daddy always wound up leaving inch wide welts on her back, her butt, and legs. Welts caused by his leather belt.

“I’m glad you’re gone, bitch,” Cindy said. Momma’d had a stroke when no one was at home. That night, daddy’d got home from work to find her cold, dead body on the kitchen floor. One day later, he’d thrown Cindy out. Without a single word.

Cindy looked at her Momma’s picture once again. “What do you think of me tonight, Momma? What do you think of me tonight?” She laughed, then blew a bright blue bubble with the gum. When it popped, she smiled at the picture. “Daddy may have been submissive to your evil control. Maybe it was your tits and ass that owned his soul.” The hatred flashed in her eyes. Years of anger she could not control. Anger running wild. Knowing what she’d do beneath the blue moon that night. “But I never did! I never will!”

She walked to the door of her one room flat, and before she left, she turned once more to the picture of her cold, dead, momma. “Bitch.”

You should have heard the door to her flat as it slammed.