Ticks and Venison

This is a draft. Story is unfinished, work in progress.

Who thought it was a good idea to put a rifle into a 5-year-old girl’s hands? Someone must have helped me shoot it. The kickback would have knocked me flat anyway. And can a five-year-old even have enough finger strength to pull a trigger? Bloody hell.

That ranch in Missouri. The thick round ticks on every dog’s back. The Chihuahua trying to mount the Australian Shepard. With so many animals around, sex was everywhere. And death too. The chicken who got its head cut off literally squawked and ran around in circles. I don’t know how I survived. My therapist asked me at our first meeting, “Have you had any trauma in your life?” I didn’t know how to answer. “Where do I start?” The ticks were the first on my list.

My aunt used to own a rodeo and dressed only in bright pink hot pants and 12-inch heels. She’d shake her hips and flip her hair and command the men around her like a smooth steel blade. Someone said she was abused as a youth. I don't know. I thought she was brilliant and crazy. I would have liked to have known her outside of the family. I would have liked to like her but she always called me a selfish bitch and that’s not great for friendship. Imagine that. Calling a 5-year-old a selfish bitch. Amazing.

She owned a store. I don't remember what was in there really. Stuffed animals and coloring books. There was odd furniture made out of deer antlers and hide. My cousin and I used to hang out there and sit on the bumpers of cars in the parking lot. It was a weird strip mall. It was the 70s. I've tried looking it up on Google and god-dammit, I can swear there's a strip mall picture just like it in Thayer. My cousin and I jumped on someone's Cadillac bumper because we liked to see the car bob and bounce. I remember getting yelled at. My cousin wasn't yelled at. But I was. Ain't it so? Being a girl. What a blitz.