Guns were always an unsettling phenomenon. Dark and deadly. She never imagined being involved with such weapons. Just forty minutes ago, she was surrounded by handguns, assault rifles and automatic machine-guns.
The menacing aura of munitions held her in a tightening grip. Something dark and cold about them raised the fine hairs on the back of her slender neck. Then she remembered why she came to the gun store. Drowning in adrenaline, she struggled to relax her muscles and calm the panic. After catching her breath, she pointed a small firearm and turned to the sales attendant, “How much?”
Forty minutes later, she sits on her leather couch, staring at the pistol on the table. Black, cold stainless steel, imposingly ominous. She observes the smooth barrel leading up to the extended tungsten and marvels at the mechanics. The new Glock 43 pistol is small, perfect for her tiny hands. Tomorrow she collects her gun license.
She feels safe and secure, but also terribly terrified. The first and only time she ever handled a weapon was during a shooting drill with her now estranged husband. She is still haunted by the experience, the deafening shock-waves, dangerous recoils and destructive power. Since then, guns have always remained an unsettling phenomenon.
Just then, she catches sight of a ghostly figure outside her bay window. An obscure silhouette against the dimly lit street. Is it observing her? Startled, she hastily draws the curtains and heads for bed, the wooden steps creaking under her feat as she scampers up the spiral stairs.
The corner of her eye detects a sudden shadow creeping under the door. Panic! She carefully sidesteps to avoid the creaking noise. At the top, she turns off the main switch, darts behind the wall and peeks across the dark room, just in time to catch the twisting door knob. She freezes. Another twist on the knob. A cold wave embalms her. The twists are swiftly followed by a clinking sound, as if from a probing screwdriver. Then a couple of muffled hits. One more twist of the knob, and the door unlocks.
For a brief moment, nothing.
Suddenly the door opens a crack, then pauses, before slowly opening wider. A bloodcurdling silhouette standing in the night! Glimmering night lights barely illuminate the dark room, but familiarity of the surroundings and flooding adrenaline allow her to perceive the darkness. She observes the intruder creeping through the dark, oblivious to her attentive eye. He navigates with a peculiar gait, groping the smooth wall to locate the light switch. He turns it on. Still dark. She detects a sense of confusion on his grim face and demeanor.
The intruder now prowls like a predator, hunting in the dark. His deep cold stare searches the room. But it’s not the dimly reflecting serrated dagger that horrifies her the most, it’s his familiar countenance, traceable against the dim night lights.
A towering height, round head, and wide sloping shoulders. She can’t forget how she loved to fondle his afro-textured hair. But that was years ago. He was brawny back then, he looks emaciated now. The hair is messy, worn-out and untamed. Skin sags where toned muscle once was.
Jabali descended into misery, drug-abuse and ruin after their sore divorce thirteen years ago. He blamed her for his miserable life. Their degenerating discord culminated in an attempted murder. He got convicted of aggravated assault after strangling and threatening to kill her.
She was safe after he was sentenced to twenty years. But time flies like an arrow.
A few days ago, her world exploded into pandemonium when she was informed of his successful parole and early release. Memories of the attempted murder came roaring back, engulfing her in immediate terror. Her tormented instincts drove her to the gun store.
Tightly clasping the new gun, she intensely observes the prowling hunter pick out the stairs. His eyes, which once radiated love, are now devoid of emotion, his fingers like trembling claws in the darkness. A feeling of dread creeps up her stomach, she must act quickly.
She slinks into the bedroom, well aware that only the stairs stand between her and the menacing nemesis. Turning off all lights and relying on awareness is a survival tactic she learned from Jabali. He also taught her that positioning was key in life and death situations. She skulks into the corner, concealing herself between the closet and the wall. Her hands quiver, but the grip on the pistol is unwavering.
She keenly listens and follows his familiar flat footfall ascending the staircase, steps creaking under his heavy foot. Using this noise as cover, she subtly cocks the handgun. Her ex-husband taught her well. Seconds later, the upstairs floorboard squeaks. She can smell the shadow in the room. Fear creeps over her like a tangible force, and the pungent stench of warm urine stings her nose. The intruder closes in, his serrated dagger dimly reflecting in the darkness. She smells their tension and terror. With shivering arms, she levels the firearm at a rising angle, fingers tensely resting on the trigger. The cold metal grows heavier with each passing second. The dagger reflects closer and closer, everything freezes.
With a determined instinct, she squeezes the trigger just as the tip of a shadow emerges across the closet. A deafening bang reverberates into the darkness. The intruder stumbles back, perplexed and seemingly unsure of what hit him. A red dot on his chest blossoms into a crimson smudge, and the dagger clatters as he crumples into a heap on the marble floor.
All goes quiet. No shadow, no movement. Only an unlicensed gun smoking into the night.
