For some long moments she started down at the gun in front of her.
She knew the gun, knew the weight she would feel if she picked it up, knew the feeling of the cool steel again the warm skin of her palm, knew exactly how much pressure was necessary to pull the trigger, the force with which the recoil pushed against her tensed muscles when the bullet is thrown out of the muzzle.
Usually this familiarity was comforting.
Still her hands were shaking badly as she tried reaching for it. She balled her hands to fists and closed her eyes. After a few deep breaths she opened her hands again and one of them closed around the grip of the Sig and she lifted it up, her arms stretched out in front of her and her second hand supporting the weight. A pose she didn't have to think about. It came almost natural to her.
Her eyes wandered to the paper target in the distance, focused on one spot right in the middle of the black rings on the white paper. Another deep breath and she felt her heartbeat slow down.
That was the moment she heard it again. She knew there was nothing and no one in the shooting range but her head made her hear the scream again. The boyish voice that tore through the moments of silence after she had pulled the trigger.
She closed her eyes again and found herself back in the forest. She knew what she had seen, had been sure that she had looked straight into the barrel of a gun. Instinct had told her, that she should fire her weapon before the person she had been chasing into the woods did. So she did.
A gunshot, a scream and some quick footsteps later she was kneeling over the dead body of a homeless boy of barely 14 years with a piece of pipe in his hand.
A comforting warmth suddenly brought her back into the shooting range. Her arms were still stretched out in front of her, the gun still pointing at the paper target but her hands were shaking.
She suddenly heard someone breathing beside her head. The warmth against her back stretched through her arms and she felt his chest behind her back and his hands wandering along her arms, coming to rest over her hands that were still clutching her gun, one finger wrapped loosely around the trigger.
Again she heard the scream and every muscle in her body tensed. She felt tears running down her cheek and felt as if she couldn't breathe. Softly she shook her head.
"I can't… I just… can't…" she breathed, her voice scratching hoarsely against the inside of her dry throat.
"You can!" he breathed into her ear, his steady, warm hands a reliable stability. Again she shook her head but even before she could pull the finger away from the trigger, his came to rest against it. She felt him slowly increase the pressure until the gun fired and the surprise of the recoil tore a yelp from her throat.
Once more he pulled the trigger by pressing her finger against it before he felt her break her inactivity. She started pulling the trigger by herself, her eyes closed.
When the clip was emptied and the trigger just produced a clicking noise she slowly let the gun sink and opened her eyes again. Her breath came short and new tears added to the wet spots on the table before her.
He felt her sink against him, muscles slowly relaxing and he gently peeled her hand from around the gun before placing it back down on the table.
He feared that she would pass out but just before her knees were about to give in she caught herself. After another deep breath she turned and looked at him.
"I really thought… I never wanted to… I…" she started and wiped at the teary paths down her cheeks.
"I know. Nothing that happened was your fault! I would have down exactly the same thing!" he told her and gently pulled her into an embrace.
Her lack of resistance told him how thankful she was that he was there. He didn't expect more and when she willingly sank into his arms, he knew she was going to be fine.
She wasn't then, but she was going to be. One day.