𝗧𝗼𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘄'𝘀 𝗟𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 | an apocalyptic novel ©

Chapter 35

Just a Bullet

2031

Aidan

Training, training, training.

Every day, twice.

I narrow my eyes at the red dot of the target seven yards away from me. I can land it, no doubt.

The other recruits next to me, not so much. Perhaps it was an advantage for me to go to the gun range with my father in his free time. I know how a gun works, I have loaded his plenty of times.

That's today's training. Learning gun safety and cleaning, and firing the first shots.

My eyes land on the gun laid out on the table of the shooting range booth I'm in.

My father, the gun to his temple.

The pull of the trigger-

No.

I press my hands to my protective earguards to stop the noise from echoing in my mind.

"On the count of three, each number is a step! Pick up, load, stance!" the Drill Sergeant shouts over the hushed whispers of excitement.

I, on the other hand, am not excited at all. If my still raw memories start flashing up just from seeing a gun, I'm afraid of how much worse it can get. Quickly, I tuck away my dog tag to not get in the way of training.

"One!"

My hands pick up the gun, the feeling suddenly too familiar.

I'm nine years old again, standing next to my father, looking up to him handling the weapons he chose like a professional, in admiration. He was more than experienced, I was just too young and stupid to know.

My hands grip the dark plastic of the gun like I remember my father doing.

Weakling.

No. Not now.

"Two!"

I find the bullet cartridge on the table and insert it into the gun like I used to.

Three times counter-clockwise.

Stop.

"Three!"

I grind my teeth and glare into the distance to the target, going into the position we so dearly trained to take and the position I remember my father in. Shoulders back, dominant arm extended, the other gripping the gun for support when the recoil hits.

"Now, fire!"

His finger is on the trigger.

I can't, I can't, I can't.

My finger is placed on the trigger, and suddenly my palms are very sweaty and I feel like I can't keep my other arm there for support.

The recruits start firing their shots, one by one.

And one by one, the image puzzles itself together in my mind.

"That counts for you too, Rayman!"

I flinch, both from the comment from the Drill Sergeant and the shots when the image nestles itself into my imagination.

No.

Fire, now.

My finger twitches on the trigger. And I pull it, audibly wincing.

The recoil doesn't hit as hard as I expected it would without support.

But the memory takes over completely. My eyes begin to water.