View Sight

She curled her fingers around the checkered rubber grip and rotated her hand around her wrist. The gun was heavier than she had expected, but it felt good. She immediately felt safer, even without bullets.

The gun had been in the closet, a leftover from her husband's military career. Content to let him have it, she’d always refused to touch it and insisted it be kept unloaded on the top shelf, the safety on, the bullets in another place.

No boy or girl in her house was going to going to wind up dead from childish curiosity.

Closing her eyes, she now imagined confronting a would-be rapist, holding him at bay as she held the gun at arm's length. No-one could tell just by looking that the gun was empty, after all.

Muzzle up, she extended her arm like a Charlie's Angel. Despite what she remembered seeing on TV and in the movies, locking her elbow felt uncomfortable and made her hand tremble. She bent her elbow slightly, pulling the gun back toward her body.

There, that felt better. A thought struck her and she frowned slightly, considering. What about kickback? Or was that the right word? Maybe the locked elbow was to keep the gun from being knocked off course with the force of its own explosion?

She shrugged the question aside. It didn't matter. Without bullets she would hardly have to worry about kickback. She shook her head. That had to be wrong. A kickback was a type of bribe.

I'll have to look it up, she thought.

She tried to reach forward with her thumb to push the safety off. At least, she hoped it was the safety. An outthrust of metal below the hammer got in her way. The only way she could reach the safety was to take her finger off the trigger.

That wouldn't do. She could see the bad guy, the intruder into her home, watching her, waiting for a chance. She'd take her finger off the trigger and he'd leap at her.

No, it was best to leave the safety off.

The problem was that it was too big for her hand. She'd have to look for something smaller, she thought, and stopped, astonished.

Had she really gone so far?

She thought again about the fear she lived in, every night.

There were predators in this world, hunters who enjoyed playing with their prey the way a cat did. She'd had encounters with that kind before and had survived. But that was when she was too young to tell what had happened.

She'd never felt afraid with Harry around. It was why she'd married him. She'd loved his strength, his skills, his willingness to use them to defend his country and her.

But now he was gone. The only person who could protect her was the one sitting on the bed, holding his old gun.

And out there, watching her every night, a predator.

A small and agile animal could escape the cat, evade its notice or hide somewhere too small for paw to reach, but an animal trapped in the open was dinner.

Unless that animal had an unexpected backup.

She squeezed the trigger, familiarizing herself with the strength needed to force the hammer back. A click and the hammer cocked, a second click and it fell forward again on the empty chamber.

Yes, tomorrow she would buy bullets. She refused to think further than that, something in her mind rebelling at the thought of taking lessons in shooting, training in killing.

She again imagined herself facing an intruder, warning him, ordering him to lie face down, spread-eagled as she backed to the phone to call 911. In her mind she could see him, laughing, mocking her, telling her she didn't have the guts to pull the trigger. He started toward her, hands reaching out to take the gun, reaching out to rape and kill her, and she squeezed the trigger, saw him stagger back, shocked, as red blood flowed from the hole in his abdomen, overwhelming even the absorbent cotton of his t-shirt.

She shook herself out of the vision, feeling a little sick.

I don't want to kill anyone, she thought. That would be a horrible thing, to be a person who had killed another human being. It would taint all the rest of my life.

But then, what choice did she have? He wouldn't stop. Predators didn't. He'd play with her until he was tired, and then he'd finish. And as bad as the game was, the finish she was sure, would be even worse.

The only way to stop him was to kill him. She again imagined squeezing the trigger, pictured the blood, tried to think how she'd explain it to the police.

Would she go to jail? Surely they wouldn't treat her kindly, a woman who had just killed another person. No matter how justified, such an action could only bring the most serious consequences.

Of course, the alternative was a brutal, agonizing death. She grasped the gun's butt more firmly, pressing the knobby pattern of the grip into her palm.

She smiled a little, unconsciously, looking at the slick black metal in her hand. It really was amazing how much safer she felt. With this she had a way to stop him, a way to defend herself. Without it she was helpless.

She caressed it with her thumb. Affectionately, enjoying the weight. It felt so good, so right in her hand. She'd keep it beside her tonight.

Tomorrow she'd see about lessons.