location: fairgrounds, shooting gallery time: 10:30 ish pm status: open ! ( 0 / 4 )
he held the air rifle the way you hold a memory, or the proof of it. back hunched, one eye slightly closed. it was his fourteenth birthday when his father first took him out to shoot guns. a winchester 250 still slick with the hatred of previous fathers, inherited. it bled down the barrel like oil that tarnished his boy hands. his father used to take his brother out before he died, so that day wasn't really about shooting, it was a ritual, a sick coronation, an attempt at crowning in the silence of the one who didn't come back. he knew it then, knew he'd fail before he started. now it's just the hum of carousel hymns in his ear, not the ghost town made of trees and the silence they both pretended was out of necessity. he remembered his father's stance, remembered him kneeling, his body faltering under recoil and serious eyes. breath in. hold. wait for certainty. three sharp breaths, third one caught in his throat, and then only the dry click of machinery answered. just the hollow cough of a broken thing. his finger stayed pressed like a man clinging to something, like a boy clutching his father's coat. still nothing. he chuckled, lowered the rifle and stared at it like it was either freedom or another kind of shackle. his father had always been amused by his weakness. and maybe, if he really was thinking of going back to visit the old folks soon, maybe that was a sign. maybe he could've borrowed a few more days. a shadow moved at the edge of his vision. he raised the rifle, smirked, pushed hair back behind his ear. "wanna try? not sure if this thing's rigged or if it's just me ---- maybe you'll have better luck."