Bullets

He stood there motionless with sweat dripping down his forehead. His finger was testing the pressure of the trigger with a slight quiver down his arm. She knew that upsetting Martin in the slightest way would set him off. Turning her head slightly her eyes connected with that of the only guy she ever trusted: her brother Jason. He was on his knees and looked lifeless. Gathering some courage her legs began to push, moving her towards him, and in that moment she knew she had to get her brother out of here.

Getting up, she set in motion events that would scar her and her brother for life. Turning around, Martin heard the slow thuds of her feet coming towards him and that's when he did it: he pulled the trigger.

"Aimee, wake up," stressed Hailey.

"No! No!-, I'm awake now," croaked Aimee.

"Sorry. You were screaming; I didn't know what to do," Hailey whispered.

Leaning her head against the edge of the bed Aimee grabbed her brother's hand and put it to her cheek. Martin was in a coma after turning the gun on himself. Since returning from Afghanistan, his post-traumatic syndrome had worsened in the last two years and no amount of therapy could give him reprieve. Aimee's tears slid down her cheek and she could feel her silent anger brewing inside her.

Her father was to blame for all of this. Having lost all hope in the system, her father committed himself to take Martin, Jason and herself to the shooting range to release tension. His alluring reasoning was: "A bullet can beautiful, to aim is to see, to hear, to feel but as soon as you lose aim it can be a dangerous, revealing our inner turmoil leaving a mark not on the target but us".

Such philosophical psychoanalysis had nearly cost her and her brothers' lives. It was three months now and she still couldn't bring herself to be in the same room as her father. His physical presence made her feel unreal anger; true pure hatred. She was afraid of what she would do if she found herself alone with him.

"Your father came and went," commented Hailey. "I told him that you weren't ready yet."

Getting up Aimee walked over to the window and stared at the steel roofs and car park. So grey, so lifeless and so distant.

"You have been spacing out a lot lately, Aimee. Are you okay?" Hailey asked.

"Yeah, sorry I just can't stop thinking about what happened," she mumbled. "I just feel like I could have done more to help Martin but every time I tried to help I just stuffed things up more," she exclaimed.

"You tried to help all you can. Nothing about what Martin did is your fault -"

"You're right there- it's all his fault," cut in Aimee.

"Look, Aimee, don't take this the wrong way but have you ever considered the sacrifice your dad made when he decided to take your brother to the shooting range? He was at his wit's end but he believed that he was doing something right. Martin was trying to cope but even the medication didn't work. What could he have done?" pleaded Hailey.

"But putting a gun in his hand, Hailey? Really? I know it seemed to be working but it was a risk and ...and..." Aimee trailed off.

"And since when do you not take risks? Even the doctors thought that Martin may benefit by using his skills as a marksman to do competition shooting. Aimee, you have to move past this. You must make your peace with your dad and only then can you help Martin."

The two friends fell silent. Both stared at the lifeless body on the bed with the cords hanging from the machine. There was no change.

Aimee stood up and grabbed her bag.

"I'm going. You're right- there are risks and I suppose Dad did what he could. And I suppose if I don't talk to him I'll end up losing him too. So, um, yeah. See you."

Aimee's exit was soon followed by Hailey's. As the door swung shut for the second time a small voice was heard from the bed.

"Aimee?"