Daddy Plays Roulette

Some have told me it's a chilling tale to share. I say life is a chilling tale to live.

         I was ten when my father became friends with Brett, a hunter from down the street. Thursday evenings when my father returned from work Brett would appear - a cloud of tobacco smoke encircling his head like a foggy, grey halo. The two would leave without exchanging words and I'd watch out the window as Brett's VW van chugged down the road. As the sun started to set on Sundays the two would come plowing through the back door, the stench of their weekend flowing through open windows.

         This particular Sunday was cool, the type of cool that left you shivering if you stood still for too long. A breeze whipped through the curtains, wrapping around me. My lips let out a shaken breath and I watched it rise to the ceiling. The distinctive smell of pine needles mixed with tobacco hit the kitchen, causing my eyes to water and my nose to itch. I heard the two drunken men stumbling in the yard, tripping over tree roots, laughing over their own clumsiness until they made it unscathed into the kitchen.

         "Oh Davy, what a weekend! Girl, get me a beer will ya?" A screech ripped through the room as Brett skidded into a chair, propping his feet up on the table. He unloaded his pockets, placing a small revolver, some bullets and a knife covered with dried blood - possibly deer - next to his feet. I opened the fridge and it's milky air escaped causing my lips to tremble. I grabbed three beers giving one to my father and two to Brett. He laughed, "The girl knows me Davy...the girl knows me."

         Conversation was lost between gulps and I watched as Brett stuck his finger through the small space by the trigger, slowly spinning the gun. I watched the revolver catch light in between specs of dust and dirt. The light bounced off, reaching all the way to the ceiling in arches of dull rainbows and bright white. Brett's face came into view as he lowered his face level with the gun. His cracked lips pulled back into something of a smile, revealing his decaying - yet whole - teeth.

         "Ever played Russian Roulette?" Brett asked, taking on an eerie kind tone. I shook my head once to the left, then to the right before settling back into staring at the revolver.

         "You're daddy has. He's got good luck. Wanna see if you carry the same f****n' luck?" I started to shake my head but Brett answered for me.

         "Oh course you do. Davy, you get to point since it's yer kid." My father stood up and moved behind me. I kept my eyes on Brett and the gun. Brett pressed on the side of the barrel, causing it to pop out. Just as I thought he'd broken it he slid in one bullet, spun the barrel and put it back together. I watched as the gun was handed over my head to my father, my eyes rolling back until they hit blackness.

         My father grasped my ponytail and pulled, releasing my hair, letting it fall around me. I felt the cool metal nuzzle its way to the back of my skull where my ponytail once sagged. I thought back a few weeks to when I was home - at my mother's. I was tied to a chair and my brother had his pop cap gun pressed against my cheek. "Any last prayers, Indian?" I closed my eyes, playing true to my stubborn character. A loud "Crack" ripped through the neighborhood as I let myself go limp, feigning death. My mother had shouted from the kitchen window, "Don't point guns at your sister!"

         My father cocked the gun. I tried to imagine what a real gun would sound like. Would I hear it go off before the bullet reached me? Lost in my own thoughts the men's laughter faded in and out. I could feel the pressure from where the muzzle rested against my head as my father fought to keep his drunken stance.

         A metallic thud sounded in the room, immediately followed by what I had presumed to be a gunshot - deafening, deep and thunderous. I didn't know I had shut my eyes until a hazy grey light filled my view. There was a dull ringing in my ear, like a high-pitched bee buzzing in my ear. Life was moving in slow motion, like the part of a movie where there isn't any sound playing and all the characters run about in mass confusion. Brett was screaming, or gaping. I couldn't tell because I wasn't sure I could hear much over the ringing. I turned to find my father who stood, staring at Brett. Brett's wild gaze fixed on me as he threw his beer bottle in my direction, the bottle exploding against my head, bits of glass wedging their way into my skin.

         I awoke the next day, the clock on my bedside table flashing 12:09pm. I crawled out of bed, my head throbbing with confusion over the events the night before. That night Brett had been shot when my father dropped the gun. Blood was caked onto the daisy linoleum and glass was scattered throughout the kitchen. I perched myself up over the sink to look out the window. Brett's VW van still in our driveway, yet my father's truck was gone.

         I assumed they were at the hospital and thought it better for my father to come home to a clean house so I swept up the glass, scrubbed away the murky blood and put the kitchen back in order. I made two tuna sandwiches and set the table for two with beers as beverage. I caught a glimpse of light from under the table and bent to retrieve the gun. I sat on the edge of my unmade bed holding the gun in my palms like one might a wounded Dove. I admired once again the way the light bounced off in between the dust and dirt, casting off rainbows on my ceiling.

Author's Note

Any suggestions are welcome. Any critiques are welcome - keep in mind this is based on a true event.