Little Gun, Big Sister

by

Andy Bailey

Head spinning from the whiskey she had choked down on the way to Art’s house, Charlotte pushed a few strands of sweaty black hair out of her eyes and took a deep breath.  Then, giving what she hoped was a terrifying shout, she swung open the door and burst inside the bedroom, gesturing wildly with her pathetically small revolver.

The room was dark except for the flickering light of the TV as it framed Art’s head in a ghastly splash of white against the bedpost.  He lay with his hand rested down the front of his sweatpants, slack jaw and droopy eyelids only adding to his zombified looks.  He started at the noise and whipped his head towards her.  “Christ, not this again.”  He slouched back down against the headboard and focused on the TV.  “I though you got rid of that toy.”

“It’s not a toy.”  Charlotte moved closer.  “I’m going to kill you, Art.”

“Oh.”  He turned his glassy eyes back towards her.  “What now?  Because I didn’t call yesterday?  Because I left the cap off of your toothpaste?  Forgot your aunt’s birthday?”

“Goddammit, where is she?”  Charlotte tightened her grasp on the weapon and aimed it towards Art’s crotch.  A gush of anger shuddered over her and her vision clouded with tears.  Her limbs felt light and empty, as though all her veins were clogged up near her heart.

Art removed his hand from his pants and sat up on the bed.  “Easy, baby.  Where is who?”  The glow from the TV skidded off the bald spot on the back of his head as he shifted towards her.

“Antonia!”  Charlotte dashed toward the closet, flailing the gun through the hanging shirts and pants until they all swayed together in a clunky rhythm.  “Where is she hiding?”

“Your sister?”  Art’s voice cracked.

Charlotte emerged from the closet, the tiny pistol lost in her grip as she trained it back on Art.  “I know you’ve been sleeping with her.”

He shook his head.  “You kidding?  You think I would sleep with her?”  Art rubbed at the stubble that darkened his chin.

“I can smell her on you sometimes.  I can feel her there, between us.”

Art slammed his palms against the mattress.  “Charlotte, would you stop?  You’re not making sense.”  He gazed up at Charlotte.  “Oh, shit.  You stopped taking your meds?”

Charlotte swallowed hard.  A metallic taste crept down her throat.

“Dammit, I thought we went over this.  Did you forget to refill your prescription?”

Charlotte, realizing that she had slowly been letting her gun drop, raised it up again towards Art.  “But her car—”

“Do you know how many people own a maroon Camry on this block?”  Art shook his head.  “She’s your sister.  I’d never touch her.”

Charlotte, noticing that she was grinding her teeth, relaxed her jaw.  “I’m supposed to believe that her being my sister would stop you?”

“Well, there’s that, and the fact that she weighs like 300 pounds.”

Charlotte sneered.  “That didn’t stop you with that girl from the Sizzler!”

“I already told you, I was tricked into that and it doesn’t really count.”

She shook her head grimly, the petite revolver beginning to weigh heavily in her hands.

“Just give me the toy.  You could put somebody’s eye out with that.”  Art moved towards her on the mattress, arm extended.  “No wonder you’re acting like this.  You’re not supposed to get drunk when you haven’t been taking your medication.”

She hadn’t, until then, realized she was drunk.  The adrenaline had worn off and left her with a heavy buzz that made her movements feel watery.  She stepped back and eyed him cautiously.  “How do you know I’m drunk?”

“Because you smell like a goddamn whiskey distillery.”

Charlotte shook her head absently and kicked her foot under the bed a few times.

“You think she’d fit under there?”  Art scrunched his eyebrows together like one long caterpillar squirming across the top of his eyes.

She didn’t respond as she stalked around the rest of the room, peering behind the dresser, opening the desk drawers, coming to a stop when she noticed the light peeking out from underneath the closed bathroom door.

She whirled around towards Art, gun first.  “Why is this light on?  Why is the door closed?”  She felt feverish, as though her brain was enveloped in hot, sticky oil.

Art flopped back on the mattress and sighed.  “It stinks in there, is why.  I have to leave the light on for the fan to work, and I didn’t want the smell coming out.”

Charlotte reached back for the doorknob.

He jolted up.  “Charlotte!  Don’t!  It smells like shit.”

Her hand hovered over the doorknob for a second, then dropped.  She turned back towards Art.

He gazed down the end of the bed towards his feet.  “Listen.  I know I haven’t been the best boyfriend in the world.  I just…get restless sometimes.  I want to end that, though.  I really do love you.”

Charlotte lowered the revolver, letting it dangle off of her pinkie finger.

Art gave her the moon-faced pleading look that always made her think of the dogs at the pound.  “Please?”

Charlotte sighed.  “I’m tired, Art.”

“So am I.  Why don’t you come to bed?  You need some sleep, babe, and I know just what it’ll take to put you out.”

Charlotte’s left foot began twitching.  “You think it’s that easy?”

His smirk was brief, nearly invisible.  “At least let me take you home.  You can’t drive like this.  Pretty girl like you, there’s a lot of creeps out there who won’t be scared away by that tiny gun.  Hell, it might even turn them on.”

Charlotte didn’t respond, just gave the slightest of grins, turning her head so as to try to hide it from Art.  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, eyes arched, fleck of tooth between her smiling lips.  She almost looked happy.

She pulled at her maroon blouse, damp from sweat.  A thought seized her brain.  “How did you know that Antonia drives a maroon Camry?”  She stepped towards him.  “She just got it last week, and I certainly never told you.”

Art raised an eyebrow.  “Well, see—” The sound of the toilet flushing cut him off.

“The hell?”  She stormed towards the door.

“NO!” Art shouted, turning off the TV with the remote as he dashed out of bed towards her.  Darkness swallowed the room as the bathroom door burst open.  Charlotte felt something wet and squishy rub against her, gently at first, and then with a sudden forceful surge that sent her flying against the dresser.

She fell backwards and started to pull the trigger instinctively, thoughtlessly, like scratching an itch.  The tiny revolver only held three bullets and created no loud burst, no bright flash, and no jolting kickback while it discharged.  Charlotte kept firing into the darkness until she heard the repeated ‘click’ of the hammer striking at the empty chamber.

“Hello?” she called, the faint buzzing from the street light outside the only reply.  She stood carefully, the air thick with the acrid smell of gunsmoke and another scent, faintly sour, that pulled sharply at Charlotte’s memory.  She ran her hand along the top of the dresser until she reached the desk lamp.  Then, breathing heavily, she pulled the chain.

Charlotte squinted against the orange light as she surveyed the room.  In the far corner, braced underneath the window, Art sat with his legs splayed out in front of him.  He stared straight ahead, as if still stupefied by the television, except one of his eyes seemed droopier than normal and was bleeding.  One of Charlotte’s miniature bullets had caught him square in the socket, taking with it parts of his cornea and cerebellum out of the back of his head and splattering them in sticky chunks against the wall.

In front of him lay a pale, shapeless mass that Charlotte instantly recognized as her sister, Antonia.  Naked.  She lay on her stomach, the stretch marks along her ass and back looking like they were ready to rip as they tried to contain the fat that spilled everywhere.  Antonia’s entire body was covered with a film of slimy sweat, giving her a greasy look.  A tiny bullethole dotted her right shoulder, the blood trickling out over the quivering mounds of backfat and staining the carpet.

Antonia moaned and tried to shift her weight.

“Oh shit!” Charlotte screamed and jumped back, pulling the trigger as she did.  Click.  The edges of her vision throbbed a deep red.

Antonia rolled all the way over on her back and stared up at the ceiling, her dirt brown hair knotted over her face.

“Oh…shit,” Charlotte repeated.  “Are you dead?”

Antonia’s voice sounded faint, far away.  “Oh.  Oooh, God it hurts.”  Charlotte stepped closer and stared down at Antonia. This wasn’t her sister.  This was a bloated, disgusting, thing, a monster.  Something like this couldn’t have a sister.  “Ch-Charlotte,” Antonia struggled.  “Wh…wh…”

Charlotte used her foot to nudge Antonia gently in the stomach.  “Did you fuck him tonight?  Do you fuck him every night?”  Something jagged was tearing through her brain, making her thoughts splintered and uneven.

Tears streamed out of Antonia’s eyes.  “He wasn’t worth it.  He wasn’t worth it.”  She whimpered and rocked to and fro on her back, a flipped-over turtle trying to right herself.

“Are they ever?” Charlotte asked, fighting back her own tears as she reached into her pants pocket, pulled out two bullets, and began to reload the gun.

End

Andy Bailey lives in Los Angeles.