Behind A Gun

“Jesus – put the cigarette out, bro. I hate that stuff.” Jake tensed, keeping it at his mouth in trembling fingers.

“Why? You’re not breathing it.”

Rodger simply raised an eyebrow, never breaking stride across the dojo. He walked with the confidence of someone who had nothing to lose.

“I’m smelling it. It smells like a dead possum with a fire up its anus.”

Jake’s nervous laugh split the air, and he flicked the smouldering stub to the ground. He stood, mere feet from Rodger. One would have never guessed they were brothers; Jake’s stance was narrow, his hands wiped sweat on his ill-fitted Gi and his gaze was downcast and jerky.

“Can we just start?”

A pause, and Rodger nodded. He walked over to the table in the centre of the mat. It was plain, unadorned, but for the 9-mm pistol sitting atop it. Silent, Rodger picked it up, turned, and offered it handle first to Jake. Jake froze.

“Can’t we do it a different way, like, maybe, sit down for a chat? Or... something...” Jake trailed off, staring at the hard dark metal.

“No.”

“I love you, man. I’m sorry,” He looked around as if expecting something to happen, “Please, stop it!”

“No.”

“Just forgive me. That’ll work,” Jake’s eyes widened in pleading, tears at the edges, “Please. Bro.”

“No.”

Rodger thrust the pistol into Jake’s hand, and stepped back.

“Don’t you love me anymore,” Jake’s voice was quiet, and he refused to look up, staring instead at the pistol laying in his open palm.

Rodger tilted his head, a sad smile on his face.

“I love you.” And with that, Rodger’s voice lost the coldness and took on a pleading tone – the tone of someone with something to lose. His whole demeanour changed, shoulders hunched, head trying to hide behind outstretched arms.

“Stop! Wait, Jake, I’m sorry man. Little bro, put it down! Put it down, and we can talk! Can’t we just talk?”

Jake was nodding furiously. Yes, put it down! He just needed to put it down. His fingers closed around the grip.

“No,” his voice was alien to his own ears.

The cold metal stayed firm in his grip, the ridge of the trigger pressing into his index finger.

His hand rose.



~



Jake woke with a muffled gasp. He was curled foetal position on his side, one arm trapped between bed and waist, the other on his throat. He could hear the snores of his bunkmate, and rose slowly for fear of waking him.

The bars were comforting today. They kept him where he belonged, where he couldn’t hurt anyone. He hung on them, staring at the cells across from him as the big clock ticked the night away. He began to hum, an old tune Rodger had taught him as kids.

It was 4am when Dyno woke, hanging his bearded, wrinkled old head off the edge of the top bunk. Jake glanced back, and grimaced. Dyno hated being woken.

“Bad dream again?”

Jake nodded.

“Your brother?”

“Yeah,” came the whispered reply.

Dyno sighed loudly, rubbing his forehead with a heavy hand.

“Shove it - I’ll help you, sprout. Come here.”

Jake looked at him, eyes narrow and wary.

“You think I want to be woken up by your whiny humming every morning? I’m trying to help. Come here.”

Jake inched toward the bed, small footsteps, until he stood just a foot away. Dyno leaned toward him, the smell of cigarettes seeping from his open mouth.

“Little closer.”

Jake inched closer still.

Dyno cuffed him round the head, catching his neck against the metal of the bunk-bed.

“You want some advice, freshie? Man up,” Dyno let out a loud bark of laughter in his ear, then released him and turned back to his bed. In minutes, he was snoring.

Jake stumbled back to the bars, heart beating too fast. He stood there, too scared for tears.

His fingers itched for the feeling of cold, dark metal. Behind a gun, it didn’t matter if you were a weakling. Behind a gun, it didn’t matter if you were a coward.

Behind a gun, it only mattered if you were a killer.