had only one thought on his mind and it dominated everything else: where could he buy a gun that couldn’t be traced back to him?
CHAPTER
13
The night seemed to wrap around Eric, swallow him. He was crouched down in the bushes behind his mother’s house looking up into the kitchen window and listening to Jeff talk on the phone. A .40 caliber handgun was tucked against the small of his back. It was the first gun he’d ever bought and it’d surprised him how easy it was. He just walked the streets of downtown at night and was offered drugs but asked for a gun. A young kid, no more than fifteen or sixteen, said he’d get one for him. An hour later Eric had a stolen gun that couldn’t be traced for less than two hundred bucks. The guns were purchased with fake ID’s from gun stores and were sold on the streets to people who couldn’t purchase them legally.
It was cold out, or at least he thought so. There were gray clouds blocking the moonlight and it made the city appear darker than normal. Eric was thoroughly drunk but not to the point of staggering. He stood up and peaked inside. Jeff was shirtless, a large skull tattoo with flames around it on his shoulder, a gold crucifix around his neck dangling with his chest hair.
Eric snuck around the back porch and slowly twisted the knob to the back door, stopping with each squeak to see if Jeff was coming. He opened the door only far enough for himself to fit through and shut it behind him. All he could hear was his heart thumping in his ears and he was short of breath, butterflies twisting his stomach in knots. The TV was on and he tip-toed over and turned it up.
Jeff was still on the phone; Eric could hear him from the hallway. With each step forward, Eric felt he was losing something. Some grip he had on his life that was quickly spiraling out of control. But something was pushing him to go into the kitchen. Eric stopped by the entrance of the kitchen and leaned against the wall. He reached behind him and came out with the gun. The trigger felt smooth and the weight of it in his hand gave him confidence, moved him forward. What other choice did he have? It was only a matter of time before Jeff would kill his mother. There was no way around it. His mother would be too frightened to testify against him and the police wouldn’t do anything. There was no one else.
He turned the corner and pointed the gun.
Jeff was sitting at the dining table with his back toward him. Eric took a couple steps and could see the sheen of sweat on Jeff’s neck. He pointed the barrel at his head, his finger feeling the trigger.
Jeff stopped talking. He put the phone down and stood up. Eric realized he could see his reflection in the glass of the kitchen window. Jeff turned and looked straight at him, fear flashing across his face before disappearing. He glanced down at the gun and then back up at Eric.
Eric could feel the anger in him, the hatred. It flowed from his gut, through his arm, and into the finger pressed against the trigger. Hatred had a taste; it came up like bile and clouded his eyesight, made him deaf. It consumed him and in the end, there was only the hatred.
Eric squeezed the trigger.
The click of the empty gun echoed in the room. Eric tucked the gun away, never taking his eyes off Jeff.
“Touch my mom again, and it’ll be loaded next time.”
He turned to leave the kitchen. Feet running on the linoleum behind him. Eric reached into his pocket.
Brass knuckles bashed into Jeff’s mouth as he tried to tackle Eric from behind, cracking his front teeth. He fell back, blood pouring down his chin and onto his chest.
“Motherfucker!”
He charged at Eric again, connecting with a jab to his face before receiving a powerful right to the jaw. Jeff’s eyes glazed over and he shook his head to rid himself of the blurry vision. Eric pummeled his face and Jeff threw his hands up in a guard. His hands and forearms turned bright red from the blows. He fell back
CHAPTER
13
The night seemed to wrap around Eric, swallow him. He was crouched down in the bushes behind his mother’s house looking up into the kitchen window and listening to Jeff talk on the phone. A .40 caliber handgun was tucked against the small of his back. It was the first gun he’d ever bought and it’d surprised him how easy it was. He just walked the streets of downtown at night and was offered drugs but asked for a gun. A young kid, no more than fifteen or sixteen, said he’d get one for him. An hour later Eric had a stolen gun that couldn’t be traced for less than two hundred bucks. The guns were purchased with fake ID’s from gun stores and were sold on the streets to people who couldn’t purchase them legally.
It was cold out, or at least he thought so. There were gray clouds blocking the moonlight and it made the city appear darker than normal. Eric was thoroughly drunk but not to the point of staggering. He stood up and peaked inside. Jeff was shirtless, a large skull tattoo with flames around it on his shoulder, a gold crucifix around his neck dangling with his chest hair.
Eric snuck around the back porch and slowly twisted the knob to the back door, stopping with each squeak to see if Jeff was coming. He opened the door only far enough for himself to fit through and shut it behind him. All he could hear was his heart thumping in his ears and he was short of breath, butterflies twisting his stomach in knots. The TV was on and he tip-toed over and turned it up.
Jeff was still on the phone; Eric could hear him from the hallway. With each step forward, Eric felt he was losing something. Some grip he had on his life that was quickly spiraling out of control. But something was pushing him to go into the kitchen. Eric stopped by the entrance of the kitchen and leaned against the wall. He reached behind him and came out with the gun. The trigger felt smooth and the weight of it in his hand gave him confidence, moved him forward. What other choice did he have? It was only a matter of time before Jeff would kill his mother. There was no way around it. His mother would be too frightened to testify against him and the police wouldn’t do anything. There was no one else.
He turned the corner and pointed the gun.
Jeff was sitting at the dining table with his back toward him. Eric took a couple steps and could see the sheen of sweat on Jeff’s neck. He pointed the barrel at his head, his finger feeling the trigger.
Jeff stopped talking. He put the phone down and stood up. Eric realized he could see his reflection in the glass of the kitchen window. Jeff turned and looked straight at him, fear flashing across his face before disappearing. He glanced down at the gun and then back up at Eric.
Eric could feel the anger in him, the hatred. It flowed from his gut, through his arm, and into the finger pressed against the trigger. Hatred had a taste; it came up like bile and clouded his eyesight, made him deaf. It consumed him and in the end, there was only the hatred.
Eric squeezed the trigger.
The click of the empty gun echoed in the room. Eric tucked the gun away, never taking his eyes off Jeff.
“Touch my mom again, and it’ll be loaded next time.”
He turned to leave the kitchen. Feet running on the linoleum behind him. Eric reached into his pocket.
Brass knuckles bashed into Jeff’s mouth as he tried to tackle Eric from behind, cracking his front teeth. He fell back, blood pouring down his chin and onto his chest.
“Motherfucker!”
He charged at Eric again, connecting with a jab to his face before receiving a powerful right to the jaw. Jeff’s eyes glazed over and he shook his head to rid himself of the blurry vision. Eric pummeled his face and Jeff threw his hands up in a guard. His hands and forearms turned bright red from the blows. He fell back
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