Straight to the Heart

It's been over twenty years since I've done this, she thinks, taking a wide stance. 

And technically, she corrects herself, I've never actually done this.

She breathes out and pulls the trigger slowly, as she's been told, and a small hole appears at the outer edge of the neon yellow bullseye.

A handgun feels very different from a rifle.

She takes another steadying breath.  Fires again.  Breathes.  Fires.  Again.  More small holes appear, and she's cognizant, now, of the luscious tang of hot metal in the air, accented by the low-slung pungence of gunpowder.  She hadn't realized she knew them so well.

The scents settle into the pleasure centers of her brain so easily, so comfortably, that she understands they must have carved out their dens when she was still a child.  They must have been waiting for years to come home again, to twine about her heart like a pair of contented cats.

God, it smells like safety, like comfort.  Like belonging to and adoration for the man who first handed her a gun, taught her to respect it as a tool and a thing of beauty.  Didn't teach her nearly enough, before he was taken from her.

She fires again.