Target Perfect

I take my heartbreak to the shooting range. I was an expert markswoman, but I haven’t shot in almost 2 years. Last time was on the anniversary of the last time I shot with my gun buddy before she moved so far away. Coincidentally, my lover was shooting a video right around the corner at the same time. Now he’s the reason for the ache in my soul.

I think pumping bullets into a man-shaped target will be good for me. It will come back to me. It will heal me. Just like yoga, meditation, or sitting in a dark, cavernous room watching flickering images on a giant screen.

They say, You know we don’t rent guns to people who come in alone; it’s the law. But we know you. They say, We’re not worried you’ll do anything stupid.

They say, and I give them no reason to doubt.

I stuff my ears with foam, slip on the muffs and goggles, and take the carry case with the Kimber 45 and the box of 50 rounds into the range.

Clip the man-shaped target and send it out 25 feet. Load the Kimber, wrap my hands around it, take careful aim at the paper form, and slowly pull the trigger. First shot: dead center chest. He’s down. He’s bleeding. He’s gone.

And I feel much better.

As I raise the gun to take another shot, I notice another shooter take his place three stalls down from me on my right. He’s alone. He must own. Or they know him, too.

Pull the trigger. Bullet tears into the target just to the right of my first shot. Another, an inch below. Another, through the first hole. Damn, I’m good. Don’t fuck with me, man. And really really really don’t fuck with my heart. I can blow yours away. I laugh to myself; as if I’d ever aim a handgun at an actual human being.

Only if the guy were coming at me with evil intent.

And my (former) guy never came at me with evil intent. He just hurt me, is all. Bad.

Another shot, this time to the center of the forehead. Yup.

The shooter to my right has yet to send his target out. I finish the remaining rounds in the Kimber and begin to load it again. I’m watching the guy from the corner of my eye; I can only see a slice of his back. He’s wearing a dark blue denim shirt, black pants. He’s got light brown hair, a little long in the back. Needs a trim, or that’s his style.

I look behind me, through the triple-paned window that separates the lobby of the gun club from the range. See John and Tina serving a couple of customers. Alberto must be in back, or the men’s room. The cops who usually hang around for a little practice are gone. It’s just me and the guy who still hasn’t sent out a target, who isn’t shooting.

I can’t hear if he’s loaded his piece. I can’t see what he’s shooting. I almost want to lay down my gun and check on him.

Then, through my earplugs and headset, I hear it. One cold, hard shot. And I see the denim shirt, the black pants, the light brown longish hair, fall back onto the concrete slab of floor. And I see the blood. Splattered onto the glass, the floor, the head that used to have a face.

I drop the Kimber and run out to the lobby, through the sound lock that takes for-fucking-ever to open-close-open. But they’ve already seen it. They’re already on the phone. They already know it’s too late.

I double over, retching nothing but bile. Somewhere in my mind I’m thinking about the minute before the shot, when I thought about looking in on him. I think about the times I’ve thought about doing what he did. I think about the people who love him, the people who love me, the people who are going to have to clean up his mess. The people I love too much to cause them so much pain. The people who are going to feel his pain for the rest of their lives. Somewhere in my memory is the notion I once heard, that suicide is the biggest “fuck you” anyone can scream. Or whimper.

I want to call the man who broke my heart and tell him I’ll love him forever, I don’t care who he’s fucking, I don’t care if we never see each other or speak again, I will love him always, and I will never shoot another bullet into another paper target in anger at him ever again.

I want to call my mom and promise her everything.

I want to see God in the flesh and tell Him I believe.

I want to sleep for a week, just to wipe out the image of the bloody denim shirt.

And as they wrap his body in plastic, and ask me the last questions, and walk me to my car, I thank the dead man for the lesson he taught me about life.

I will never forget. I am forever changed.

This didn’t happen.
But it could.