I WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD when I fired the first bullet. The gun in my hand felt strange and cold and heavy, a foreign rock plucked deep from outer space. I am from a state that you only think of once every four years, from a town that you’ve never heard of, from a farm that was, for a time, my entire world. My father was the kind of man that knew only the truth of his preacher, my mother the kind of woman that knew only the truth of her man. Among the best days in my life was my tenth birthday. It was a gathering that consisted only of my mother, father and I, which suited me just fine. There I was presented a modest-sized pony. The glistening auburn creature represented no small measure of our farm’s yearly earnings, no small measure of my father’s pride in his work, and no small measure of my mother’s love for her son. Sitting here now, I swear I can still hear the gentle rustling of its breath, like an oak in the spring. I can feel the rhythmic twitching of its idling haunch, humming with life. “She’s yours,” was all my father said as he handed me her reins. I called her Rusty.

Two years later when she went down on the shallow side of Caesar’s Creek, I realized she was injured with the kind of hubris granted only to the young: on my back five feet from her, with blood in my eyes, and far too late to be of any use to anyone. I ran north across our land at a speed, in all the years since, I have never been able to recreate. My father responded to my pleas with a graceful urgency that did little to ease my panic, but in hindsight was for my benefit alone. He tossed a beat-up canvas duffle into the bed of his truck and we tore out of the drive.

Rusty looked dignified even in her grotesque state, twisted in the silt, head cocked toward the sound of father’s pickup; the clear water gliding over her hind quarters, the blood barely noticeable against the hue of her hair. My father set his bag on the ground beside her and went to one knee. I stood behind him with all the unrealistic expectations of a needy child looking to a parent. He pulled out a polished snub-nose revolver. “My father’s,” he offered, not looking up. He flipped the cylinder open, slid one golden bullet into the chamber, and then made the gun whole again. He handed me the weapon, wooden grip first. “Safety, hammer,” he gestured respectively. When I turned toward the animal, I found her staring at me with intention. I closed my eyes.

I don’t know how long I stood there before I finally pulled the trigger. After, my father’s hand on my shoulder ushered me back to reality. I looked to him; my eyes were wet and unsteady, while his were bright and sure. I held out my hand, the gun still locked in my fist, warmer now. He didn’t take it, but instead held out his own hand. Five more golden bullets rested in his palm. He dropped them into the breast pocket of my shirt. “She’s yours,” was all he said.

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Sift through the rest of this savage tale by Mark Minelli in SN13 | The Ides of March.

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