packing heat (fiction)

The first time I held a gun, I was too young to drive, too young to wear make-up, and too young to be holding a goddamn gun. Grandaddy Clarence talked me through its proper use while sucking down many Bloody Marys, which always were one of his very favorite noon o'clock cocktails. He had to go somewhere and I would be by myself at his house for a while. It was a shotgun, I think, heavy. My arms started hurting just trying to hold it up long enough for the home-alone instructions. I don't remember anything he said. I only remember the sense of dread--something could happen that would be worse than what would happen if I tried to use this gun.

The second time i held a gun, I was too young to be president, too old for my parents to claim me as a dependent, but old enough to know better.  My boyfriend's buddy carried a big silver gun, bigger than what cops carry on TV. Apparently, they both thought it was important that I shoot a gun at least once in my young (stupid) life. We drove out into the orchards under dark of night. I held the gun out the window, wrist wobbling--again the weight. I squeezed the trigger and was startled by the sci-fi flash and high pitched pheeeeww sound that followed.

Time was, I held my own gun and it fit my hand quite nicely. It was light and small, but not so small that it wouldn't get the desired reaction. I carried it in the back pocket of my jeans. I remember pulling it out with intention only once, secure in both hands, no fucking idea what I was doing.