Chapter 3
I knew from past experiences that if I wanted something I would have to earn it. I couldnÕt expect my problems to take care of themselves. My father kept his gun in a lined wooden box in the third drawer of his desk. I had seen him take it out at night and clean it. He loved that gun. He would pull it out when ever he was mad and point it at me or my mother. He would stand there laughing as we trembled in fear wondering if this time he would pull the trigger. It is an image that is still engraved in my memory and it haunts me to this day. The way he just stood there, laughing, an insane look in his eye as he prepared to pull the trigger, the way he suddenly dropped the gun, his hand clutching at his chest as he fell over, dead of a sudden heart attack. I had been prepared to take the bullet, to die that day. But fate was not done with me, it took him instead. And so it is that twice I should have died at my fathers hand, but didnÕt. Oh how fate loves to toy with me.
After his death, my mother returned the gun to itÕs home. It was better to leave it there and bury the memories with it. Everything else of his remained untouched in his office. It was with great trepidation that I entered this space. It was as though I was afraid that when I opened the door I would see him sitting there cleaning his gun, as though if I disturbed his stuff he would come back to life. But when I opened the door I did not see him there and he did not come back to life.
The room was cold and I shivered as I entered. I turned on the light and the room was lit but only dimly and deep dark shadows fell around the room. I approached the desk and ran my hand over the cold surface, then I knelt on the floor and opened the third drawer on the right. There nestled in the drawer was the wooden box. I lifted it slowly and carefully and set it down on the floor. I hesitated before opening it. I knew that if I lifted the lid I would be face to face with something I feared, with the object that almost killed me. I took a deep breath and tried to prepare myself for what was to come, then slowly I lifted the lid and saw it.
Everyone has moments in their lives which they remember forever. For most people, for people living normal lives, these memories are happy ones, a first kiss, a first love, things which while essentially small are of deep emotional importance. For me however, my happy memories are so outweighed by the bad that they almost cease to exist. The feel of that gun in my hand, that is one such memory. I can feel it now, as solid as the bed I lay upon, I can feel itÕs weight, itÕs coldness in my hand, and shivers run up my spine. I wonder if the CIA is watching me now, I wonder if they notice that the color has suddenly run out of my skin and that IÕm shivering and my hands are shaking wildly. I wonder if they hear the shriek that escapes my lungs as I throw myself up on my bed, my heart racing, my breathing quick and irregular, as though IÕve awoken from a bad dream.
I knew from past experiences that if I wanted something I would have to earn it. I couldnÕt expect my problems to take care of themselves. My father kept his gun in a lined wooden box in the third drawer of his desk. I had seen him take it out at night and clean it. He loved that gun. He would pull it out when ever he was mad and point it at me or my mother. He would stand there laughing as we trembled in fear wondering if this time he would pull the trigger. It is an image that is still engraved in my memory and it haunts me to this day. The way he just stood there, laughing, an insane look in his eye as he prepared to pull the trigger, the way he suddenly dropped the gun, his hand clutching at his chest as he fell over, dead of a sudden heart attack. I had been prepared to take the bullet, to die that day. But fate was not done with me, it took him instead. And so it is that twice I should have died at my fathers hand, but didnÕt. Oh how fate loves to toy with me.
After his death, my mother returned the gun to itÕs home. It was better to leave it there and bury the memories with it. Everything else of his remained untouched in his office. It was with great trepidation that I entered this space. It was as though I was afraid that when I opened the door I would see him sitting there cleaning his gun, as though if I disturbed his stuff he would come back to life. But when I opened the door I did not see him there and he did not come back to life.
The room was cold and I shivered as I entered. I turned on the light and the room was lit but only dimly and deep dark shadows fell around the room. I approached the desk and ran my hand over the cold surface, then I knelt on the floor and opened the third drawer on the right. There nestled in the drawer was the wooden box. I lifted it slowly and carefully and set it down on the floor. I hesitated before opening it. I knew that if I lifted the lid I would be face to face with something I feared, with the object that almost killed me. I took a deep breath and tried to prepare myself for what was to come, then slowly I lifted the lid and saw it.
Everyone has moments in their lives which they remember forever. For most people, for people living normal lives, these memories are happy ones, a first kiss, a first love, things which while essentially small are of deep emotional importance. For me however, my happy memories are so outweighed by the bad that they almost cease to exist. The feel of that gun in my hand, that is one such memory. I can feel it now, as solid as the bed I lay upon, I can feel itÕs weight, itÕs coldness in my hand, and shivers run up my spine. I wonder if the CIA is watching me now, I wonder if they notice that the color has suddenly run out of my skin and that IÕm shivering and my hands are shaking wildly. I wonder if they hear the shriek that escapes my lungs as I throw myself up on my bed, my heart racing, my breathing quick and irregular, as though IÕve awoken from a bad dream.
