Billy Hargrove might rule the corridors of Hawkins High as the bully. Yet, behind closed doors at home, he's the victim, tormented by his own father. His mother abandoned him, so he has no defender against his abuser.
But at school, Steve Harringto...
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Nancy is freefalling into an abyss of anger, sadness, and stress. With a fierce determination, she carries the familiar cold metal of the Smith & Wesson Model 10 M&P. The wind whispers through the bare branches of the trees, gently nipping at her exposed skin as she treks into the woods.
Her mind drifts back to her past relationships, particularly her time with Steve. She remembers their first kiss; Steve's confidence, his charisma ...
He'd been so different from Jonathan. So much more manly.
But it isn't just the physical connection she misses. She thinks back to the early days with Jonathan, the shared interests, the way he made her feel understood and cherished. They had been more than lovers. They were friends, partners, and now, all of that seems to have slipped through her fingers.
The forest looms inviting. The last rays of the sun dip below the horizon, painting the world in shades of twilight. She advances with purpose, her mind focused on the shooting practise she'd set up in the woods. The targets, weathered and worn, await her in a clearing. They're silent witnesses to the turmoil in her life.
The cooling air, while brisk, clears her mind, sharpening her senses. Finally reaching the clearing, Nancy pauses for a moment, staring at the targets, feeling the weight of the gun in her hand. The twilight has deepened, and the first stars of the night twinkle overhead, watching her in silent anticipation.
With a determined scowl, she raises the gun, her finger finding the trigger with practised ease. The Smith & Wesson Model 10 M&P, cold and solid in her grasp, fits into her palm like a familiar friend. It's a six-shot revolver, its blued steel finish showing faint signs of wear and a history of use.
She looks down the sights, her eyes trace the sleek contours of the gun, taking in the 4-inch barrel that extends in a straight line from the frame. The cylinder is filled with bullets. The hammer, resting in a half-cocked position, is poised, waiting for her command.
The gun doesn't judge or question her. It simply performs its function with mechanical precision. In this dark moment of her life, there's comfort in the way the weapon responds to her touch.
