Flashback Friday

WH and I are in the midst of our third (and final) breakup, circa 1999. We’ve been split for the longest yet- over a month, and I am dating a delectable chef named Mike. He has the most adorable black curly hair and is the only decent guy other than WH I have ever dated.

My father is concerned that WH will go psycho when he finds out. I am confused by this; it is WH who broke up with me, and he knows I’m dating Mike, and he didn’t like it, but that’s what happens when you dump people-they make decisions without consulting you.

At any rate. My mother and sister are otherwise occupied- probably out on the town shopping and eating. My father brings me back into his bedroom. He reaches into his nightstand and pulls out his loaded .22 handgun.

We have always had multiple guns in the house, loaded, and I have always known where they were. It was never a big deal. I had some target practice, both with him and through Hunter’s Ed, and I never was compelled to break the rules, which were “don’t touch the gun unless you plan to use it, and don’t touch the gun unless you plan to use it”.

Dad explains to me that he has plenty of confidence in my ability to handle a weapon and shoot with accuracy, but that he hasn’t yet taught me the most important thing, and he feels it’s time. He wants to teach me how to shoot a real person.

I’m having conflicting feelings at this point- bewilderment, confusion, anxiety and amusement. This is one of the Dad emo cocktails- it’s a way familiar combination.

He unloads the revolver and dry fires shots into his mattress until I am comfortable that the gun is completely devoid of even thoughts of bullets. He hands it to me, and I point it at the wall while he corrects my form- kicking my feet a little further apart, pulling my arms down a little lower near my abdomen. When he’s satisfied with my stance, he stands in front of me.

We make eye contact, and he starts yelling. “If I can’t have you no one can, you dirty slut! Who do you think you are, dating that guy, you nasty bitch? Fuck you. Fuck you for fucking someone else! I’ll fucking kill you!” At this point, I’m more than a little freaked out, because my Dad is screaming obscenities at me, and more strange, he’s pretending to be my boyfriend, but doing a really poor impression. I guess I took too long to mentally file the moment, because they he started screaming “fucking shoot me! Shoot my ass! fight for your life! Look me in the eye and shoot me in the chest!”

So I did. I looked my father in the eye and dry fired his .22 handgun into his chest until he shut the fuck up.

He loaded the gun, put it back in the drawer, and took me out for ice cream.

For reals.

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5 Responses

  1. OMG – I really am speechless!

  2. Uh… wow. My dad once shot a pair of my jeans (no one was in them at the time) with a shotgun because he felt like they were too tight. That was my dad/gun story. You totally win!

  3. OMG! Seriously?!

  4. Hoy fuck. I was laughing out loud hysterically while also being totally shocked. Holy fuck.

    Is there a follow up? Did you ever actually have to shoot someone, haha?

  5. Wow. That’s an interesting way to show a daughter you love her, but I suppose he did the best he could.
    Funny. My Dad left me two handguns in his will but not once did he ever show them to me or shoot them (that I know of) when I was a kid.
    I was kind of surprised he had them, but he specified ME as inheriting them.
    I don’t know what that means, but knowing my family it’s some kind of weird compliment.

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