L Akers: Shoot Like a Girl

“I don’t know, but let’s move out of this open area.” Grayson snapped his fingers at Ozzie and jogged to the side of the house, with the dog and Jake on his heels. They leaned against the wall and waited, listening closely.

Another loud bang shook the wall they stood against, startling them. Ozzie backed off the wall and barked at it long and loud… not stopping.

“Ozzie, hush,” Grayson chided him, in a loud whisper. He stopped barking, but bristled at Grayson’s feet. “Let’s check it out, Jake.”

Slowly, they crept onto the porch, moving to opposites sides of the door. “Your gun, Jake,” Grayson whispered.

Jake looked down at his gun holstered to his side. “What about it?”

“Pull it out and be ready, just in case.”

Jake reluctantly pulled his gun out, handling it like it was dirty, pointing it down at the ground. Grayson rolled his eyes and knocked. The door opened with the force of his knock, giving him a small peek into the house.

It was an awful sight.

An old couch was standing sentry in the middle of the small room. The stuffing was ripped out of it, and spread over the floor. The lone chair in the room was tipped over on its side. A long table against the wall once held frames and knick-knacks that now lay on the floor, shattered. Newspapers were strewn everywhere, as though intended to cover the mess.

It was bizarre. Who would want to break into this piece of crap?

It could be the boys that’d chased Puck up a tree, maybe coming back looking for their gun, Grayson thought.

“Hello?” Grayson yelled.

There was no answer.

“Jenny?” he yelled again. “I’m your neighbor. Puck’s been hurt. He’s at my house.”

They waited.

Still no answer.

Slowly, Grayson pushed the door wide open with his elbow and stepped in, sweeping the room from left to right.

No one seemed to be there, so they quietly crept into the next room—the kitchen.

Against one wall stood an original retro chrome and Formica dinette set with two faded red and white chairs straight out of the fifties. The table was a mess of old food wrappers, hollow cereal boxes, empty bowls, and dirty spoons.

The microwave door hung open to expose its grimy interior covered in layers of burnt-on food. The sides were yellowed from use and age. Empty Mason jars stood in a neat row along the kitchen cabinet. The sink was filled to the brim with dishes caked in old food—and in the middle of the kitchen floor was a big brown pile of reeking shit.

Grayson backed up a step, bumping into Jake. “Holy shit !” he said. Who the hell takes a dump on the kitchen floor?

Jake crept up to peek over his shoulder, and then gagged. “What is that?” He gagged again, this time his entire body convulsing as he backed away.

Grayson chuckled at Jake’s weak stomach and shushed him, turning to search the bedrooms.

Jake followed behind, trying to tap down the lurching in his stomach.

There was a tiny hallway with three closed doors. Grayson swung open the first door and did a sweep of the bathroom.

Empty.

He yanked his T-shirt up around his nose, and waved Jake back, quickly and quietly shutting the door again. The toilet was filled to the rim with a brown and yellow liquid mess.

They moved to the next door and Grayson flung it open.

No one there either.

They stepped in to what appeared to be Puck’s bedroom.

The carpet on the floor was so shabby that it showed patches of the sub-flooring beneath. The bed was covered in a tattered Star Trek comforter. An old TV stand held an even older television and an Xbox game system. Posters hung on two of the walls. Over the dresser were pictures of muscle cars and skate-boarding scenes. Over the bed, hung half a dozen eyebrow-raising poses of nearly naked young women with long legs and big titties.

Uh oh , Grayson thought. Maybe Jake was right to be concerned about Puck.

Quietly, they moved around the room, and each took a side next to the closet. Jake flung the door open in one quick motion and Grayson pointed his gun in it… and then relaxed. It was too small to hide in; no one was there. Grayson bent down and rummaged through the pile on the closet floor, surprised to see a new-ish drone and controller.

It reminded him of the welfare-rats checking their EBT and Snap card amounts using five-hundred dollar iPhones. Unbelievable. Between the drone and the Xbox, Puck’s mama could have used that money to fix his room—or any room—for that matter.

“Look at this, Grayson,” Jake whispered.

Jake had stepped away to stand in front of the other wall, staring at a series of pictures taped to the old wood paneling. They were drawn by hand with colored pencils and crayons—the level of skill that which a young teenager would be capable of.

Grayson shrugged. “So, he draws?”

Jake pointed at one. “No. Look really close at these…”

Grayson stepped up for a better look and shrugged again. “What?”

“Don’t you see?”

One by one, Grayson looked closer at the collection of pictures: the first one was a messy green tractor with exaggerated tires, pulling a wagon piled high with yellow hay.

The wagon had three red hearts scratched onto the side of it. A figure of a man wearing a hat sat in the driver seat. Reddish-brown balloons of dust were drawn in behind it.

The second picture showed a woman laying horizontal with a cross drawn over her. The figure had long black hair and two turned-up black slits for eyes—as though she were Asian. On her arm, Puck had drawn the number two.

The third picture showed a scene of a black hole drawn over green grass, with a bucket hanging over it, the rope attached to it flying overhead, tangled and twirling. Underneath the bucket was a long ‘down arrow’ pointing into the hole. Two stick figures stood over the hole. One was looking up toward the sky with his face colored beet-red. The other was looking down with his hand held over his mouth. A tear-shaped drop plopped from the second figure’s face.

The final picture showed a boy with blondish hair, his mouth a dark, gaping maw as though screaming. A maroon-colored crayon had been used to depict blood dripping down his arm as a girl-figure with curly red hair stood over him, pointing her finger.

“Holy shit,” Grayson mumbled.

“Do you see what I see?” Jake asked, scratching his head with the butt of his pistol.

Grayson slapped the gun away. “Don’t do that, Jake. You’ll blow your fool head off,” he whispered loudly. At least he didn’t have his finger on the trigger, surprisingly.

“It’s not loaded,” Jake admitted.

Grayson closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and shook his head. Jake had bucked him about the gun situation, not feeling comfortable with it at all. But Grayson was uncomfortable with him not having it on him. He knew he’d have to do some practice drills with Jake soon to get him more comfortable.

He turned to leave when he noticed a picture in a frame standing on an old wardrobe. He stepped over and picked it up.

It was a picture of Puck, standing tall and strong with clear, intelligent eyes in a hockey uniform. He was holding a trophy. He looked to be about thirteen or fourteen. A larger, older version of Puck stood with his arm slung lazily over Puck’s shoulders, smiling proudly down at the boy.

He flipped the frame over. On the other side, taped to the back, was a letter. In very small writing, it read:

“My Huck Finn,

Your mama named you Finn when you were born, but I’ve always called you my Huck Finn. I knew you’d grow up to be a man’s man, always looking for adventure. You played a mean game of hockey, son. Could’a gone pro. After your accident, I couldn’t shake the thought of that puck hitting you in the head, and all the regrets and what-ifs it brought me. I couldn’t handle seeing you this way. I cussed the fucking puck , not you… but I’m still sorry. I apologize for that. I’m going away for a while to make us some money, but when I get back it’ll be me and you again, just like it was before, without my anger. And even though you’re different now, I can re-teach you things. We’ll hunt and fish and you’ll be my Huck Finn again. You can still climb trees, so keep on climbing high and watch out for your old pop. I’ll be back.