shorts, stories and scraps

One-Shot Finch

A/N: This was a narrative intervention for To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. I loved this book and definitely recommend it! Though the characters, events and metaphors all derive from the book, the writing is my own. :)

For context: 1933-35. Atticus Finch has a history of being known as an excellent shot. He is honest, hard-working and just. He has two children, Jem and Scout. 

Warnings! Violence appears in this story. For more details please scroll down to more A/N. 

"Take him, Mr Finch."

For a moment, Atticus believed he imagined the words, except he turned his head and found Mr Tate holding the rifle out toward him. The offer and expectation were obvious, but Atticus refused. He'd abandoned that talent, buried it alongside the other shameful joys of his childhood. 

Mr Tate didn't relent, and Atticus held back a curse as they argued. They had no time to waste. Tim Johnson was in the open street; boundless, unstable, erratic. Nothing but a bullet could save the dog from the disease which had befallen him. 

Silence suffocated the street in a lingering fear that hadn't emerged in years. The air was still like the dead, the sunlight bathed them in a fever. Atticus wiped thick sweat off his brow.

Calpurnia's shrill over the phone minutes prior was a sound Atticus wouldn't easily forget. Immediately after he embodied false assurance and instructed her to warn the street and keep the children inside, he had darted to the station.

"A crazed dog in February?" Mr Tate had toppled back into his chair behind his oak pedestal desk. "Are you sure, Atticus?"

Atticus had given a sure nod. "I'm certain, Heck. Calpurnia called me; I could hear it in her voice."

It hadn't taken much else to convince him. Within seconds, Mr Tate had pulled out a heavy rifle and rested it against his chest with the experience anyone could expect from a town sheriff. They'd taken the car, and Atticus had barely climbed into his seat before Mr Tate's foot slammed on the accelerator. The engine had roared to a start.

All Atticus remembered of the trip was the panic which clogged his throat. He knew his children; they were likely the ones to discover Tim Johnson. Had they approached too near? Calpurnia would have mentioned it, though he knew better than to ignore any possibilities. 

Now, the children seemed not sick but intrigued, peering beneath Calpurnia's arms. Atticus couldn't bear it if they caught it, he loved them too much, and the disease – the dog – was right there. In the end, it was that fear, that love, which moved him.

Atticus accepted the gun. The rifle: cold, hard, inviting, somehow seemed to be shaped perfectly for his grip. He strode to the middle of the street, shoved his glasses to his forehead, dirty with sweat, but they fell. 

Atticus stood there, battling with the specs for what felt like an eternity, unable to see, and similarly unable to take his eyes off Tim Johnson slowly hobbling closer. Bursting with irritation, Atticus threw the frames onto the street. Finally, he lifted the gun and marked Tim Johnson in the scope. 

The gun was stuck to his hand with perspiration and confidence Atticus hadn't felt in decades. He swallowed hard against the foul taste in his throat and felt for the trigger with numb fingers. The rifle cracked. The noise deafened his ears.

Silence followed, interrupted only by the lone, sweet cry of a mockingbird resonating the air. It was a joyous lyric. For the first time, Atticus heard the melody and felt remorse touch his heart at the innocent song. Remember it's a sin to kill a Mockingbird. He'd taught that, hadn't he? 

Dazed, he stared at Tim Johnson's body, crumpled in a heap. Ashamed, he turned to his bug-eyed children. What he'd done, what he'd killed, was on vibrant display for them to see. Jem and Scout had never witnessed such violence dawn from their father's hands, had never seen him kill a mockingbird. 

Standing between his children and the dog, Atticus was a divided man. He knew the only choice was eliminate the danger to his children; protect them as he always must. However, as equally and simultaneously profound, guilt claimed him for inflicting evil against a mockingbird. 

His thoughts were pulled to the trial, where Tom would be pitted against not Bob Ewell, not Maycomb county, but the world's history of racism. It was unfair, sinful, ineluctable. Jem and Scout were watching him. Atticus could only hope they'd never realise him a hypocrite sinner. 

A/N: In the story, Atticus Finch shoots a dog with rabies before his children, though it is to protect them. During the time, there was little other option. 

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