The Trigger

THE TRIGGER



I killed my father when I was ten years old. They said it was an accident, but that’s not the way I remember it. I came home from school and heard yelling from the basement. My father’s voice. And my brother’s. That wasn’t so unusual; Dad and Mark were always fighting. Nothing Mark did was ever good enough.



I crouched at the top of the stairs.

“You don’t even try!” My father’s voice was hoarse and I knew he must have been shouting for a while. I wanted to go down there, be with Mark, but I was too scared.

“I do!” Mark shot back. “You just don’t want to see it.” I crept down another step, Mark’s blond head coming into view.

“Don’t talk to me that way…” Dad stepped forwards as he said this, punctuating the sentence with a slap that sent Mark’s head rocking backwards into the wall.

“No!” I whispered, stuffing my fist into my mouth to keep from being heard.

“No, Dad. Please…” Mark was begging now, one hand cupping the side of his face.

“Please what?” I could see my father now - red-faced with anger, hand raised threateningly once more.



I didn’t think. I was at the bottom of the stairs before I realized I’d moved, a rifle from the tall, thin gun cabinet clutched in one hand. The basement echoed with the sound of another blow, Mark crying out.

“Stop,” I ordered and I didn’t recognize my voice.

“What?” Dad spun around to face me, paling when he saw the gun pointed at him.



I don’t remember pulling the trigger.



The next thing I knew, Mark was kneeling on the floor next to me, turning my head away. His face was white, shocked.



A distinct red handprint emblazoned his right cheek.





298 words