likesboys | it's the bitch of living

Entry tags:

it's the bitch of living

For the weeks leading up to my first shooting lesson with Neil, what concerns me most is my wardrobe. No, I'm serious. Going into an establishment like that, I assume that the only thing I'll have going for me is my sharp and ineffable sense of confidence, something best shown through my threads. Goodness only knows that there's no guarantee that my aim will be any good. I'm passable at mini-golf, but put me on an actual field and I'm done for. Glee club's given me the strength enough to try a hand at archery, but I'll sooner hit the target next to the one I'm actually aiming for.

So, if I'm not a good shot, the only thing I have going for me is... me.

Great.

Fashion's my strength. Staring down my nose at people for their choices, another strength. But I don't know what the conditions of the range will be like. Potentially filthy. Does gunpowder pose a problem?

We may never know.

In the end, I'm dressed in clothes that will mask any mishaps well — a checkered, worn shirt from the thrift store that still hugs my waist well, and a pair of worn gray skinny jeans.

All that done, the nervousness finally sinks in when the both of us arrive at the range and it immediately becomes clear how out of my element I am.

"Hoo boy," I breathe.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I don't know what he was expecting, but I have a feeling this wasn't it. The shooting range is well managed, clean and orderly and run tight as a ship. You have to basically sign your life away at the front desk, a stack of paperwork that I help him through. Honestly, I'd have rather taken him out to a field to practice, but for him, this seemed like the best option.

They've got equipment to rent, but I've bought my own bag. While we stand at the desk, they check everything over, marking down inventory on the papers we'll sign.

"This is about as safe and simple as it gets. You'll be fine," I tell him, rolling my eyes at the safety glasses and headphones they hand over, but it's the rules here. Another reason I'd have preferred finding someplace outside and secluded.

Normally, paperwork is just what you sign without giving it a second glance or thought, just trying to get through it as quickly as possible to get to the good stuff. Not this time. Not for me. I'm in the vicinity of pretty powerful weapons, and the shots that ring around us make me jump every time, so my eyes are wide and careful as I quickly figure out what exactly I'm signing away. It feels like a lot.

I really wish Blaine was here.

But I know that there's value in having our time apart. As well as things are going between the two of us, I like having my friendships be a separate matter, and I want to be self-sufficient, and more than anything, I want to make sure that the next time trouble comes by, that I'm not the one who needs help.

So it doesn't take too long before I'm signing away, face feeling a little tingly as I quickly grab for the glasses and headphones that the employees hand over. "I'm just not used to all the gunfire," I tell Neil, wincing again when another shot rings out, before I shoot him an apologetic expression. It must feel like babysitting to him, at this rate. "Sorry."

I was never really afraid of guns. I'm not a complete fuckin' idiot or anything, but I've always gotten this little thrill from them, even a few times that I've had one pointed at my face. It's just another example of how fucked up I've always been, and even now that things are different, there are those lingering eccentricities that I'll never shake. That I don't really want to shake, truthfully.

So, there's a part of me that wants to give him a hard time about it, but as strange as he seems to me, as different as we are from each other, I like the kid and I don't really wanna fuckin' traumatize him.

"You know, you could learn like I did, in a field, shootin' at bottles, if you want. I just figured you'd wanna make things official or whatever."

I stop and consider his offer, pausing for all of a few seconds before I really start to secure the gear, because it feels like we're here anyway and might as well make the most of it. But the answer I give him is a little more thought out. "I just want to learn however will help me get there the fastest. Whatever gets me to hitting the threats where it counts. I always figured that a panel that actually looks like a person might help me."

"Let's go, then," I say, clasping him on the shoulder and steering him in the direction of the heavy metal doors separating out the sign in desk and the shooting lanes.

"You can do this. And I can't guarantee you're not gonna be scared shitless next time something happens, but you won't have to feel helpless, you know?"

"That's the hope. I mean, I can do a fair amount with swords, but that's more for show than for an actual fight. And I haven't gone about purchasing any since arriving, anyway," I reply, making a mental note to still check out some of the weaponry shops. If this doesn't go well, or even if it does, it might not hurt to have some sais around the house. Not like most people would recognize them for the weapons they are, anyway.

Could come in handy.

"Why aren't you scared? It feels like you're never scared," I ask, glancing over my shoulder. "You're not that much older than me."

"It's not about bein' older," I say with a cough of laughter, "And who the fuck says I'm never scared?"

I lead him toward the last firing lane, putting some space between us and the few other people here.

"I'm... I've been kind of fucked up since I was eight. I was too fuckin' stupid to be afraid of much, as a kid, and now... I dunno, man. I've seen a lot. I do what I have to do, when I have to do it, but I'm scared. I'm scared of a lotta shit."

I spent a good deal of last month so fuckin' scared I could hardly eat, hardly sleep. I still haven't gained back the weight I lost, and when I look in the mirror, I can tell that there's still that bruised look around my eyes. I wonder if that'll ever go away.

"I guess I mean more like... so scared that you can't move. Can't do anything. Because yeah, you're obviously scared of something, otherwise you'd be a psychopath. But." I pause, considering how to best put it in words. "But you're always able to figure it out. You and Lisbeth. When we were caught in Silent Hill the first time, I probably would have died were it not for Lisbeth. And even Blaine really stood up to the occasion. I just froze."

I glance over, watching his expression closely for a minute, before I get the sense that there's something there that I shouldn't be examining too deeply.

"Do we just... start shooting?"

Huffing out a laugh, I say, "I'm gonna show you how to load it. How to unload it. Where the safety is. How to take it apart. All the boring shit, first."

Opening up my bag and flipping open my gun case, I set Mike's Glock on the little counter and a magazine next to it.

"I learned how to shoot a long time before I ever really needed to. I had time to get used to it. The more you deal with this shit, the easier it's gonna get, okay? Then, no more freezin' up."

"I think boring is good, in this case," I murmur softly, eyes widening when Neil takes out his gun. It's all becoming so real, so solid. Obviously, I knew that we were going to be working with actual guns, that's never been the issue, but, well. The hypothetical is always different. I'm just glad that I have the luxury of learning without there being any imminent danger.

"The one thing that I'm really expecting," I start, figuring that honesty is the best policy, "is for the kick-back to hurt. I don't remember when the first time was that I heard about that, but I'm anticipating this being rough on my wrists. Correct me if I'm wrong."

"A handgun like this? It's got minimal recoil. I mean, there's enough caliber that you're gonna feel it, but I'll teach you how to hold it so it won't be a problem. Anyway, I bet you're not a delicate as you think," I tease him, putting the headphones around my neck and putting on the safety glasses.

Showing him the button on the side, I discharge the empty magazine, pulling a box of ammunition from my bag and putting it on the little table. "Magazine like this holds fifteen rounds," I say, showing him how to load a bullet and then handing it over for him to try.

"I think I saw this part on Lost," I laugh nervously, shifting my stance as I take the gun in hand, following his earlier demonstration pretty easily. While I'm still afraid that I'm accidentally going to squeeze something that makes this go off, my hands aren't shaking too much anymore, so I guess that's a plus. "Where Kate took the gun away from Sawyer, Sayid taught her how to empty it, but there was still a round left in the chamber after she ejected the magazine."

I test the weight of the thing in my hand before unloading the rounds, since I figure that's as necessary of a skill as the rest of it. "Of course, she actually already knew that, but it made her more credible as your average civilian."

At first, I'm not even sure what the fuck I'm hearing. Lost doesn't ring a bell, but considering we're about a generation apart, that's not all that surprising. The names, though... The names are too fucking familiar, and I blink slowly, thinking maybe I've misheard...

"Sawyer?" I say, coughing out a disbelieving laugh. "Tall guy, blondish hair... dimpled jackass? That Sawyer?"

"Yeah. Southern accent?" I nod, pursing my lips. "I watched that show pretty religiously back home, although I haven't been able to find it on any of the networks here. Not surprising, I guess, since this technically isn't America, or anywhere else we know. Not as religiously as I watched Grey's Anatomy, though."

Only belatedly do I notice the expression that Neil's wearing, like he's heard something of note. But it's just a television show... right?

"Why?"

"I knew him, that's why," I say, my jaw clinching tight for the span of a breath or two. Sawyer and me didn't really leave it on good terms with each other, and I still struggle not to be angry with him, on some level, but I miss him. A lot more than I'm really ready to admit.

"He ended up in the same place I came from, for a while. We were friends, I guess."

What do you say to that? I'm not exactly accustomed to talking about fictional characters as if they were real, but that feeling goes double when I haven't seen Josh Holloway walking around anywhere in the city. It's weird enough talking to Joseph Gordon-Levitt as it is, but you come to talk to someone enough, and that feeling lessens a bit.

"I... well, it's impressive that you were able to befriend the guy. I guess it could be the bias of, um, television, but he's not exactly the most open guy around," I say, trying to go through the motions again of loading and unloading the gun.

"Yeah, no shit," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Like I said, I guess we were friends. I wasn't real sure, half the time."

Holding out a hand for the loaded magazine, I say, "I dunno. We were okay for a while, then some guy from that other island showed up, and it all got weird."

Offering the magazine over and keeping my gaze mostly on the gun and assorted... parts, I find myself thinking back on the plot of Lost, trying to figure out who Neil might be talking about. There's one answer that really stands out, but there are a lot of interesting guys on that show whose lives are all a bit tangled.

I think. Honestly, I can't remember half the details of that show. Nothing made sense in the end.

"Was it Jack? Or a guy named Anthony?" I ask, even though it's really none of my business.

"Jack. Fuckin' crazy-eyed motherfucker," I grumble, putting the magazine aside and pausing to show him how to insert the magazine and put a bullet in the chamber.

"You can keep one in the chamber, but if you're gonna be carrying it around, you need to keep the safety on. A gun like this has two other internal safeties, but you don't wanna fuck around with a loaded gun, and I doubt you're gonna come on some situation when you need to be doing any quick-draw."

"Oookay," I say under my breath, both brows raised for a moment. "Don't talk about the Oceanic folks. Got it." I mean, it's not like Lost is my favorite show by any stretch of the imagination, but never did I really imagine that someone would get so worked up that they'd be, you know. Kind of mad. Also holding a gun.

Biting down on my lip, I look at Neil, my expression skeptical. "Do you think I should be carrying this thing around? No, right? I mean. Honestly, were it not for the fact that we actually had monsters walking around here, I wouldn't even consider it, I — I'm not exactly a big fan of the NRA."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

it's the bitch of living

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject