The Last Time



“Are you seriously that much of a controlling bastard? You can’t even let me have an opinion that differs from yours?” I stepped towards him, taunting him further. I could see the anger flooding into his brain as his face contorted into an malicious grimace. I stood motionless; waiting. He paused dramatically and rolled up the sleeves of his striped button-down shirt. He always wore dress shirts; he made me press them on Saturday afternoons when I should have been out with my friends.

“You little bitch…” He hissed at me and I closed my eyes. Waiting.

Then I felt his hand come across the side of my face, cruel and unyielding. I counted to myself; one, then two. And then I laughed. He had done exactly as I’d expected.

I had braced myself, so it hadn’t knocked me to the floor like it normally did. I stood firm, staring at him with unfeeling eyes that for once weren’t filling with tears. I didn’t even flinch.

He was caught off guard, and I waited for yet another moment, then I brought my arm around and leveled the gun at him. Pointed it right at his head and cocked it. I didn’t wait for him to speak. I’d taken his abuse since my mother had passed fourteen years ago. And every day since, I’d swore that this day would come; that one day he’d touch me and it would be the last time.

I squeezed the trigger and he dropped to the floor. The recoil jammed my wrist. It wasn’t the first time I’d sustained injury because of him, but it was damn sure the last.

©2013 Garden Summerland


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>