Thirteen Years Old
MY FINGER TREMBLES over the lever of the rifle. The smooth steel glides against my sweaty hand as I move the rifle into position. I stare down the sight, draw in a shaky breath, and hold it in my lungs to stop myself from shaking. My dad’s heavy breath rings in my ear. It’s so loud, a constant roar that drowns out everything else.
“Eye on the target, Maddox. Never take your eye off it.”
Hunting, or even just shooting, is supposed to be a sport—a journey of conquest. Something to do that gives you an adrenaline rush and takes you to a place where you are completely present, while proving that you are in charge of your own destiny. It’s the thrill of the hunt.
At least, that’s the way I look at it. My dad, though, to him, it’s a power trip. Proof that humans are more powerful than animals.
We’re not hunting. I’m staring down the sight at a target on a plastic deer set about one hundred yards away.
“Now,” he quips, giving me his permission to release the bullet.
My finger inches forward, pulling it back before the rifle fires at the target…missing it by a good inch.
Dad sighs heavily, making his disappointment in me known.
“Almost,” I tell him, hopeful he’ll see I’m trying my hardest.
“Almost doesn’t count, son. You either hit it, or you don’t. And you didn’t.” He grabs the barrel, pulling the rifle off my shoulder. “Give me the damn thing.” He points, pulls, and shoots, hitting the target before I can even take in my next breath.
I’m not sure whether to congratulate him or tuck my tail between my legs. But he doesn’t allow me the chance to do either as he slams the gun to my chest and stalks behind me. The sound of the tall grass scratching against his rubber boots rings in my ears. His exit is more deafening than his presence.
Giving it a good five minutes, I wait until he’s gone then I shoot again, and again, and again. Never giving up as I try my damnedest to hit the target.
After thirty minutes of missing every shot, I’m down to one bullet left in the magazine.
My last shot.
The realization that my heart is no longer pounding, my palms are no longer sweating, and my breath has steadied has my confidence soaring. It’s crazy what one can do when no one is watching. When the pressure is off—it’s just a man and his target.
I aim.
I pull.
I fire.
“Yes!” I shout, my voice ringing with excitement. The empty barrel clatters against my thigh as I spin around, hoping he saw.
“I did it, Dad,” I holler, but I know he can’t hear me. He’s already back at the house a quarter mile away.
I quickly empty the magazine, stuff the rifle in the bag at my feet, then toss it over my shoulder. Galloping through the field, I shout the entire way. “I hit the target, Dad. I did it.”
My feet don’t stop moving until I’m at the front door, and once I pull it open, I shout again as it slams closed behind me. My eyes search the open space, stopping in the dining room as I approach him, breathlessly.
Dad is sitting at the table with his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, a cup of steaming coffee to one side. The newspaper is spread out in front of him. “Dad,” I say, my voice barely a whisper, “I did it.’
He pulls back his sleeve and looks at his wristwatch with a blank face. He glances at it for a moment before his eyes meet mine, the expression on his face unreadable. “That deer would’ve been long gone by now, son.” Then he pushes his glasses up on his nose, and he returns to his paper.
My shoulders slump in defeat as I turn around, letting the strap of my rifle bag slide down my arm. With each step, it ricochets off the floor as it creeps downward.
I look forward to the day when I’m no longer a failure in his eyes. All my life all I’ve ever craved is my dad’s approval.
I’m almost fearful of the extremes I’d be willing to go to, to get it.
