Casey Gilfillan

He pulls it out from behind the bedframe and holds it for a moment, smoothing the sleek barrel in his hands. He grasps it and flexes the glossy sheen; he is so proud, he is so hungry. He is holding the gun and then he is pointing it at me; we are in his bedroom. With the gaping mouth aimed straight at my chest, he asks if I’d like to hold it. I want to laugh that he would give me this thing, but I do not laugh.

I say, sure. I am enthralled by the claws of unavoidable death. I do not anticipate him murdering me with his parents in the living room, but there would be nothing, other than my handling of the weapon, that would certify me from this fate. His ego supersedes any fear. He does not think I will shoot him with his parents in the living room, and he thinks of me holding his gun as me touching him. He disgusts me. I take it from him. I point it at the floor.

Heavy and immobile in my arms, I imagine this is what it would feel like to hold a baby. An object so dangerous and life-threatening, entirely pliable to the malice and sinister intention of its guide. Is it the innately evil nature of the child, or the environmental context that condemns it? Is it possession by the weapon, or the mind of the user that characterizes its slaughter? The burden of consequence is overwhelmingly tangible.

And I think about the weapon even when it has left my hands. I think about it, even after he tucks it away. It is five feet from me and I take measures to further the distance. I am leaving, I say kindly. Softly. Urgently. He begs me with his words but these are no use. He persuades me with his body. He is no temptress, but rather a physical force of resistance to my exit. I am falling on the bed; my face to the dresser; my back against the door. I no longer hear the hum of television from the living room.

I am outside, my car is so close. He trails me, distanced but maintaining proximity. A shark who circles and waits to lunge, who knows he will bite it is merely a matter of when. Where. He is excited by my frenzy, the pheromones of my fear. I feel his excitement; I feel our radius closing in. Where the fuck are my keys, where the fuck are they? Hip to gas tank, shoulder slamming into the body. My fist closes around my keys. I slip in like smoke and disappear leaving an ascending trail; he waits and watches and waves as I drive off.