God, forgive me

Summer-time always brought out the rats; from my window, I can see them: those stupid black idiots, parading around like they own the place... Someone ought to do something, before it gets out of hand; hell, I’d do it myself if it weren’t for my damn back. These days; I haven’t got much of anything to do: the TV spits out the same things over and over again (that news-man, Craig Summers, needs to shut his mouth; talking about that pride parade going on down-town; acting as if those queers are just like everyone else... It isn’t natural; not then, not now), those jigsaws are impossible to finish; and that new God-damn phone that Mary got me never God-damn works. I got one good friend though: booze. I love a little of the old whiskey in the morning; sitting on the balcony, watching the people pass down below. The old whiskey never changed: whiskey is whiskey! Johnny Walker never gives me a dirty look; Johnny Walker never tells me what to do (“Mr Jones, your heart-rate is way above average. Have you stopped taking your medication again?”); Johnny Walker is as good-a friend as any, and there is no way he’s going to walk out on me like everyone else; just like Lorraine went and done... It’s like I say to my old pal Johnny all the time: “The only thing certain in life is that everyone leaves you in the end”, and isn’t that the God-damn truth... Hell, now Mary wants to move away, meaning she can’t come in and clean anymore; or make my bed; or fix the TV; or remind me to take my medication. She says she going back to college to get a nursing degree or something (I know she’s lying; she wants to go be closer to Lorraine), that damn bitch; fuck them. She hasn’t left yet, but she stopped answering my calls, and if she does, she just says she’s busy, and she stopped coming round as well. A few days ago, I was going through my stuff; and I found an old Remington that I’d had since I was a boy. It’s still in damn good condition; with a dusty box of cartridges and everything. As soon as I held it in my hands, I could remember being a young kid again, and my dad pointing over to the empty beer can, and he said: “See if you can hit the can, son.” I looked down the scope and I pointed it at the can; and you know what happened? I squeezed that trigger and I tried not to wince when the varmint-rifle jumped in my hand and my ears started ringing; but my dad ran over to can; and he picked it up; and I’ll never forget the look he gave me when he said: “Damn son! You blew the ring-pull off the damn thing! Not even I’m that good of a shot! If you were older, I’d buy you a beer. What soda do you want?” He tussled my hair; and I spent the rest of the day drinking soda and laughing at my dad as he threw beer cans at the TV whenever the darkie baseball players were batting: It was a great day. I looked down the scope of the old rifle (shaking slightly, as my hands aren’t what they used to be) and I could’ve cried when I felt that old trigger beneath my finger... Every day since then, I’ve been going down to the shooting range near the grocery store; the excitement and nostalgic joy of using that old rifle has put the old pep back in my step. Open-carrying is legal here, and I walk down from my apartment building to the range; and I eye-up the spooks, queers and fag-lovers that I pass in the street; feeling like a real-badass, knowing that they can’t do shit; and I’d blow them away before they say anything. Right now, I’m on my porch with Johnny Walker; and it’s almost 7 PM. I can’t tell you how long I’ve been drinking, but I feel really good; and I can’t tell you how bad I want to start shooting down at all these freaks. I got a whole bunch of ammunition now, and I can shoot so much better than I could a week ago. I finish up the bottle and I go get the rest of the ammo. No one can see me up here; it’s a pretty small balcony, with only enough space for a chair. I get the old rifle; and I place it on the balcony ledge, so I can comfortably use it while sitting down. I look down the scope across the street: there’s a young black guy sitting on a bench; and he’s on his fancy phone; and he’s talking to a woman, whose sitting on his lap; and she looks like a whore. I’m looking at this ugly black bastard; and I’m picturing that he’s not himself, but that he’s everyone who’s ever left me. I feel a rage burn, like a fire, in my chest. They’ll never know it was me that killed him; they’d think it was one of those drive-by shootings that all negros die by. They won’t even do an investigation. I aim at his head; and I think of that ring-pull; and how easy it was to shoot that thing off. I breathe slowly, clear my throat, then get ready to pull the trigger; but just as I’m about to, that fire in my chest has turned against me; and a sharp shooting pain in my heart hits me; and as I grip my chest with my left-hand, I pull the trigger back instinctively, to save the gun from falling off the ledge: it fires; and the gun falls to the ground down below. I stand up and grip the ledge; one hand on my chest; and with my eyes half open, I look to see where that dead spook is: he’s standing, leaning over; looking at someone whose lying on the floor, covered in blood; clutching their neck. Is that- No, it can’t be... That person on the floor; the person that got shot; it’s not... Is it? It is: it’s my Mary: my daughter. Oh god... Oh no, God please; please forgive me. Is she alive? She’s covered in blood. My own daughter... How did it happen? She must’ve- My chest is getting heavier; and the pain is getting sharper. I know this pain: it’s a heart-attack. I can’t breathe. I’m on the floor sobbing; thinking of my poor Mary. Oh my God, please forgive me... Please forgive me... Please-