Get Your Gun, Annie
​
​by Christine Kavanagh


Annie found the gun in the desk drawer. It was heavier than she expected, and the grip was rough against her palm. There was something good about it though, holding the weapon in her delicate little hands. Blake had always admired her hands. So small and soft, he would tell her, just perfect.
Annie wondered if that other bitch’s hands were just as small and soft.

She turned it over, admiring its simplicity, its sleek outline. She felt the trigger, cautiously though, she wasn’t sure how it worked, and didn’t fancy shooting herself. It weighed less than the bottle of brandy in her other hand. That would have to be fixed.

She didn’t notice taking it back to the sofa with her, although she found it laying in her lap three swigs later. It was comfortable. Reassuring. Five swigs and she reckoned it weighed about the same as her bottle. It wouldn’t do to have it much heavier, it was Blake’s gun after all and Blake never liked heavy things. Probably why he was two timing her with some slip of a girl half his age. Willowy and fragile, but so easy to break. Annie had been like that once, but no more, booze and cigarettes and late night shifts do put a few extra pounds on a girl. She had a comfortable spare tyre round her midriff and the beginnings of a double chin now.

It’s never what’s on the inside that counts.

She wondered what was inside the gun. One bullet? Three bullets? Six bullets? She didn’t know how to open it up, and didn’t care to test it. How many bullets would it take to kill someone? One to kill her. Through the head, splatter all over his favourite chair. She hoped it would stain. She guessed three to kill him. Her hand would shake, despite the alcohol. She had always been weak and booze could only do so much. The first one would miss. The second one… well she doubted the second one would do the job, so one final bullet for her to waltz over to him as he lay on the floor and finish him off. Point blank.

Could she do that? She had a sister who wouldn’t ask questions a few states away. Her sister had always hated Blake, said he was a brute. It would be easy to disappear. Take the box of cash he thought she didn’t know about under the kitchen floor. Change her name. Start again. She had always wanted to run her own business, but somehow time had just slipped away from her. The bastard deserved no less. She would be doing the world a favour.

There wasn’t much time, he would be home soon, and she needed to be ready. She packed her suitcase, her meagre possessions fitting easily inside its small frame. The brandy went down the sink, along with the rest of the alcohol in the kitchen. After this she would stop drinking, stop the cigarettes and the takeouts and join a gym. Tidy herself up, maybe get a haircut. Starting today she would be a new woman.

She left the gun on the kitchen table. Took the cash. He wasn’t worth the effort.​