An Eye For An Eye

•Chapter 8•

As soon as I heard water running in the bathroom, I tiptoed back to the porch.

Even with the lights on outside, the night made it nearly impossible to guess what anything was just by looking. The light bulbs were old and dimming from years of no use. Touch was now my only sight.

I kneeled by Maks' bag, running my hands over the entire thing trying to find a zipper or buttons. It was made from some type of canvas, and it smelled of campfire and moldy leaves.

My left hand finally bumped into a small metal zipper. I yanked it down the length of the bag and shoved both my hands inside, like I was doing some sort of emergency heart surgery. My own heart, meanwhile, was working overtime. I didn't know how long I had until Maks was done in the bathroom. Each second that ticked by only made me more paranoid.

The only things I ended up finding inside the bag were clothes, a ratty blanket, a water bottle, a knife, and a box of matches. I took the knife out and zipped the bag back up.

Spreading my fingers wide, I searched the surface of the porch around where I knelt. Maks had set whatever he'd taken off his hip near the bag, I had seen him do it, it had to be--

My hands knocked into something cold and metal. I gripped it tightly, feeling every part of its smooth and bumpy surface. The grip, the barrel, the sights, the hammer, the trigger... It was a revolver. I had no idea what caliber, but I could tell at least that much.

I wasn't a stranger to guns. My dad used to bring Casey, Beck, and I up to the ridge that overlooked the lake for shooting lessons and target practice during the summer. Casey and Beck would always tease me because I was never able to hold the gun properly. I was so little then, the gun probably weighed as much as my head.

I flipped the cylinder out on Maks' revolver and searched frantically for the ejecting pin with my thumb. When I found the little rod that stuck out, I pushed it in, probably with a little more force than was really needed. The six bullets fell onto the porch, each one clinking across the wooden boards like miniature mines detonating one after another. My tongue began to bleed I bit down on it so hard. I hoped to God Maks couldn't hear anything.

I gathered all the bullets into one fist and shoved them into the pocket of my shorts. I slipped the knife into the waistband at the small of my back. I left the revolver where I found it and hurried back inside.

The water in the bathroom was still running. Soft humming noises came from the other side of the door every now and then.

I walked to my room like I was walking over a minefield; I didn't dare make a sound. There were two creaky floorboards in front of my door, but I managed to hop over them. With my ears trained on Maks' humming and the sound of running water, I shoved his bullets into my pillowcase. Out in the living room, I slid his knife in between the cushions of the couch.

In the kitchen, I leaned against the counter, chewing on my thumb nail. It was a nervous habit I'd had for as long as I could remember, though I hadn't done it that much recently. Until now.

I wasn't going to let my guard down, no matter how harmless the guy seemed. I'm sure his gun was purely for personal protection. Everyone around here had one. We were in the middle of no where surrounded by miles of forrest with who knows how many bears and hillbillies. Both were known to be aggressive.

As I rapped my knuckles impatiently on the counter, I suddenly became aware of how exposed I was. All I wore were flimsy cotton pajama shorts and a thin tank top.