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Jen Ruano

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Member Since: May, 2011

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So Far From Your Weapon
By Jen Ruano
Sunday, May 29, 2011

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A revenge story set off a dusty highway.

The beat up Ford Falcon pulls off the interstate and onto the gravel parking lot of the old motel. It is dusk and the setting sun casts a red shadow over the east side of the building. She drives slowly, taking care to observe each number on every piss yellow door. There are five other cars in the parking lot and none of them are his. She knows he will show up here and she will wait for him; waiting to have her sweet revenge.

The Falcon pulls slowly into the space furthest from the building. She shuts off the engine and the car heaves back in protest before sputtering violently to a rest. Sunset washes over the hazy sky and a beam of light falls onto the hood of the car, revealing its chipped paint with specks of rust on what was once shiny gold paint. She watches the parking lot with the eyes of a hawk and waits patiently for the sun to finally fade away. He'd be there after dark. He was so damn predictable.

Rummaging through her oversized bag she pulls out the pistol and smoothes her thumb over the barrel and the empty chamber.  She lets out a long sigh before tucking the gun securely in the back of the waist of her jeans. An hour passes and then another. She chain smokes to keep herself awake. In the fading purple darkness a flame blazes in front of her hazel eyes. 

Where the hell is he?  She thinks, growing more annoyed. 

Just then headlights reflect off of one of the windows of a room on the main floor as it enters the parking lot. She sinks down in her seat to avoid being seen as the vehicle drives past her and then turns into a space. Her heart flutters in her throat at the sight of his black pick-up truck. The brakes squeak to a stop in front of room number 3. He steps out of the truck and takes a drag from his cigarette before flicking it onto the dirt road. A billow of smoke circles above his head. He slams the truck door shut and walks towards the stairs that lead up to the second floor. He is drunk and his heavy boots weave and bob on his unstable legs. 

She studies him, bringing the ashy end of her cigarette to her mouth to take in one last puff. A smirk ripples over her lips as she watches him step into his room and shut the door. As she exhales a long stream of smoke into the air, she steps out of her car and pulls on her leather jacket and reaches into the pocket. She pulls out a handful of bullets and stares at them for a moment before sliding them into the chamber.  Locking the chamber into place she rubs moisture from her hand onto her jeans and begins her walk toward the old building.  

Her boots crunch over the loose gravel as she walks with the gun by her side. Her mind wanders and her heart races and specks of memory flash before her.  To the whore who had slept in their bed.  To the lies he told. To the bruises on her body and the wounds he left on her soul.  Her pace quickens as rage fills her and she marches up the steps to the second floor.  

Arriving at the top step she walks slowly down the long corridor, hearing the muffled sounds of a television reverberating off the windows. She stops in front of his door and her heart thuds loudly in her ears.  She conceals the gun back into her waistband and covers it with her gray t-shirt.  She takes in a deep breath and then pounds her fist on the door. After a moment she hears heavy footsteps on the other side and then a pause. 

"What?” He barks from the other side.  

“It’s me, open up!” She calls. 

The door creaks loudly as it opens and then moans to a stop.  He gives her a once over and then leans against the door frame.  His dark blue jeans were stained and he smelled of oil and booze.  

“Hey baby,” he says, smirking in a sickening way. 

They stare at each other. 

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She asks coldly. 

He raises one eyebrow and then narrows his eyes in on her before stepping aside and allowing her to pass.  She walks in and the door clicks behind her. She can feel him close against her back.  He moves her hair away from her neck, sending a shiver through her. Before she can pull away he suddenly pulls her close and buries his face in her neck.  

“Get off me damn it!” She cries and rips herself away from him. 

He takes a step backwards. “And what’s your problem pussycat?” He lets out a chuckle and steps in closer to her. “Why else did you come here?” 

She reaches for the gun at her waistband and slowly eases it down to her side.  His eyes gaze down to the metal of the gun and he stares at it and then looks up at her. 

“What are you doing?” He whispered. 

“You asked why I came here,” she says, her eyes piercing into him. 

He chuckles and takes a step in towards her but with a click; the gun is in his face and he stops cold. “Baby, have you lost your mind?” he asks, his voice breaking a bit.

There is only silence. 

Darkness falls over his face as the shadows in the room lengthen and his eyes penetrate her stare. 

“You won’t do it,” he spats. 

She bites the inside of her lip. 

“You can’t do it,” he taunts. “You don’t have it in you.” 

“Shut up!” she shouts and swallows the lump in her throat. 

His eyes glance sideways to his bedside table and hers follow. There on the small table is a  pocket knife sitting next to the lamp. In a flash he lunges for the knife and she stammers backwards, pulling the trigger but the gun doesn't fire.  He turns to face her with a devilish smirk spilling over his face.  The blade gleams off the bedside light. 

“I told you that you couldn’t do it you bitch!” He snarls and walks towards her.  

She takes a step back, losing her footing for a moment and then steadies herself.  She fires the gun again. The blast echoes loudly through the room and the color drains from his face as he looks down at his blood soaked shirt.  He grabs at his chest and pulls back his bloody hand looking at it in disbelief.  She watches as he swallows hard and then falls to his knees. He tries to brace himself on the mattress in an attempt to stand but falls again.  Drips of blood fall to the dirt green carpet below and he looks up at her one last time.  His eyes are big glossy globes. A moment passes and he falls forward with a thud as his head hits the floor. 

The air is thick and the smell of gunfire still hangs heavy in the room. She returns the gun to her waistband and kneels in front of him as a dark puddle of blood begins to pool around him.  She takes care not to get any blood on her dusty boots as she maneuvers her ear close to his mouth, listening.  His breath narrows and then goes hollow, until it stops completely. She stares into his face. His dark eyes are glossy and lifeless.  Her work is done. 

Stepping over his body she walks confidently to the door and using the sleeve of her shirt, she opens it carefully and steps out.  It is dark now and elm trees sway to and fro in the dry wind.  The motel door clicks behind her and she proceeds down the long corridor and past the room with the blaring television and down the steps.  Back at her car she lights another cigarette and her hair trails in the wind.  She takes in a long drag, moves her hair out of her face, and then looks up at the motel door.  She smirks and pulls open the door of the old Falcon and slides into the driver’s seat. The car starts with a loud rumble. She revs the engine twice before flooring the pedal. The tires peal off the road, spitting out dirt and rock behind it.


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