Gun Play

4.

At age eighteen, Katt escaped murder.

A jealous boyfriend stood five feet in front of her with a loaded double barrel shotgun, safety off, aimed at her chest. Katt held her breath and waited for the bang. She stood like an ice sculpture, paralysed and cold, only her eyes betraying her fear. A friend struck the boyfriend from behind and wrestled the gun away from him. The gun went off in the tussle. Katt lived to hear the shot. She raced into the black night and flagged down the first passing car. The guys in the old Malibu drove her home without questions, and she thanked God for saving her before collapsing into sleep.

-- Excerpt from Katt's Lives

By age 16, the gunman has been dating one of my best friends for at least one year, probably closer to two. About six weeks before they hook up, I kiss him in the back seat of a Camaro while parked at the dump waiting for bears. He wants to do more, but I go home. Despite a few phone calls and chance meetings, we never get close again. It was one night, a couple of hours, nothing more. He seems like a nice guy. I like him. And when he starts dating my friend, I'm happy for her. She finally got a good one, I think. He brings her roses and little gifts for no reason. Their song is "I Just Called to Say I Love You" by Stevie Wonder . . . because that's what he does, just calls to tell her he loves her. It's serious. He gives her a promise ring. They talk about getting married after high school. He seems like a good boyfriend, the perfect boyfriend.

The six of us, three couples, go everywhere together. We party, see movies, play pool, dance, nobody makes plans on their own, we stick together. My role in the group is as mediator. When couples fight I negotiate a peace treaty. Everyone comes to me to dump their problems. Because I am a good listener. Because I'm always willing to help compose the love letters that will put them back in each others good graces. Because I have a knack for seeing both sides to an issue and offering practical advice. Because anything said in confidence, stays in confidence. I know everyone's dirt, and that seems only natural. I hope by being a good listener, being helpful, someday someone will listen to me, someday someone will be supportive of me. Do unto others seems logical.

When the gunman starts showing up at my house after fighting with my friend, I think nothing of it. I listen. I advise. I tell nobody he dropped by. I treat him the same as everyone else. They start fighting more. He shows up a lot. I think they are going through a rough patch, they are on the verge of breaking up but maybe I can help save their relationship somehow. I think it is a coincidence when he shows up on a school night when I'm off doing my own thing and I accept his offer of a ride home.

I think I'm being a good friend by listening, by helping him to realise what a great girl he has in my friend. I think I can fix things. I want to help so much and I'm so naive that even when my mother questions his motives I shrug her off as being paranoid. Almost every night of the week I run into him on my own. And on the weekends I see him with the rest of the group. But even still, the night he pulls me close and kisses me comes as a complete shock.

Both hands on his chest, I push him away. What are you doing?! And then he confesses. Lied . . . never liked her . . . lied . . . only went out with her to be near you . . . lied . . . gave her gifts to show you how it could be with me . . . lied . . . not fighting, never fought . . . lied, lied, lied . . . just wanted to be with you . . . lied . . . all of it just to be with you . . . lied for years . . . for you.

Shock. Sick in my stomach. Wind knocked out of me, like a deflated balloon. What to do with this? Why would anyone do this? How can I live with this? And I can't breath, and he's crying and the windows are steamed in the spring rain and I feel trapped in this bright cave of too white leather, and he's begging. Please . . . please . . . I've done so much to show you . . . please . . . just give me one night . . . one chance . . . please.

And I don't know what to do. I can't process. I feel dirty. I feel like I've done something wrong. I should've known. I should've guessed. I'm so fucking stupid! I'm so god damned fucking stupid! I'm so fucking, fucking stupid! What the hell is wrong with me? And my tears are hot and angry . . . I don't feel the same way about you . . . don't want to be with you . . . I love my boyfriend . . . This is wrong . . . It's not right . . . I have to tell her . . .

And he goes poker straight, lays a big hand on my thigh and squeezes a little too tight, voice low and calm . . . She won't believe you . . . I'll say you're lying . . . that you made it all up . . . you're the one who makes up stories, writes the poems . . . nobody will believe you . . . you'll lose her and him and the others too . . . you can't tell . . . you'll end up alone . . . if you tell, people will get hurt . . . there's no reason to tell anyone . . . I made a mistake . . . I'll make it up to her . . . you'll see . . . don't cry, it's going to be okay . . .

I want to believe him. I want to believe it's all a mistake, he lost his head for a minute is all . . . nobody dates someone else for that long just to get to the person they really want . . . just to get to ME . . . that's crazy, just crazy.

I get out of the car, go into my house and straight to my room. I do what I do best. I keep my mouth shut, tell nobody, pretend nothing happened. I begin the process of rationalising . . . people say things when they're drinking that they don't mean . . . people say things when they're high that don't make any sense . . . he didn't mean it . . . it doesn't make sense . . . he was drunk or high or both . . . just forget about it . . . ignore it and it'll go away.

Months pass and he stays away from my house, isn't showing up in the middle of the week when I'm off doing my loner thing. Things seem really good with his girlfriend, my friend. The incident fades, seems to mean less and less as each day goes by. I feel relief. I feel like I can relax again. I'm so melodramatic sometimes, I make more out of things than they deserve. I need to relax, stop being so serious.

School's out for summer and we're partying at the dead end of our road. Car stereos blast AC/DC, Platinum Blonde, Def Leppard and in an odd twist, Ricky Scaggs. We pass around bottles of Hermit's Wine, swill cases of Alpine and drink quarts of Royal Reserve straight, no chaser. I'm wearing the crop top I got for my birthday. It's white with capped sleeves. On the front are three grey rabbits lined up in a row and on the back are their bunny behinds with puffy white tails. The tee ends just above my belly button. I'm also wearing my favourite pin-striped jeans, the ones with the zippered pockets and the tapered leg. They have a little lycra in them and look like a second skin. My boyfriend likes this outfit, it turns him on. I like this outfit too because it's very comfortable to wear unlike some of my other stiff denim and frilly Sweet Baby Jane blouses. This is an outfit for playing and I like to play. I can climb fences, sit yoga style on the roof of a car, run from the police, jump into my boyfriends arms and wrap my legs around his waist . . . without constraint, as if I am wearing nothing at all.

This night when I'm wearing my bunny crop top, the passenger door to the camaro is open. The gunman is sitting sideways in the front bucket seat, feet on the ground, with my friend in his lap. They are kissing, have been kissing for awhile. I'm sitting on the runner wedged between the back seat and the front. My boyfriend is standing in front of me talking to me. He leaves to get more beer out of a cooler. While the gunman is kissing my friend, he reaches one arm around the bucket seat and grabs me by the leg. Starts running his hands up toward my crotch. It's chilling. A sharp intake of breath and I jump up and back away from the car. My friend doesn't notice anything, they continue kissing passionately. Her mind is far away. She has her back to me, but over her shoulder he's looking at me. His eyes seem to laugh and he winks. I don't know what to do. Nobody has seen anything. Everyone has seen him kissing her, but if I claim anything has happened to me, they won't believe me. I find my boyfriend and tell him I want to be alone with him, lets leave. He doesn't mind.

It is the summer of secret winking. If I look his way, he winks at me. If I get too close, he touches me, gropes me . . . my breasts, my legs, my butt . . . nothing is off limits . . . if I am alone, I am in danger of having his tongue in my ear or his lips on my neck . . . He takes advantage at every opportunity. I'm too little to stop him and too afraid to tell . . . and nobody sees a thing. I'm going crazy. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to make him stop.

One night I get drunk and blurt the whole story to my boyfriend. He doesn't believe me. I swear it's true, I'm not lying, I'm not being melodramatic . . . I ask him to keep a better eye, to protect me, to watch and see and catch him in the act. He promises me he will, promises me that it will be okay, nothing is going to happen to me on his watch. But he's patronizing me. He thinks I'm exaggerating.

The bad behaviour continues . . . my boyfriend sees nothing. I'm so confused. I don't understand why he is doing this, why he won't leave me alone? I drop hints to my other friend about inappropriate things going on in the group, but she dismisses me . . . I'm the drama queen, I make things up, I usually write them down . . . nobody takes me seriously. It's frustrating. I feel like I'm going crazy. Maybe I am going crazy. Maybe I am making it up. Maybe nothing has happened at all. Wink, wink. Fingers ripping into my hair. Why can nobody see?

Summer turns to Fall and I'm spending more time alone with my boyfriend, avoiding the group altogether because I don't know how to function in it. I'm best friends with the girls at school, I do girl-only things sometimes at home, as long as I'm certain he won't show up, that parents are close by . . . but I'm trying really hard to stay away from group outings and parties.

Until Christmas.

His grandparents have gone to Florida and he's got the run of their house over the holidays. He's having a big party he says. Lots of people. My boyfriend wants to go, says it will be fun, misses hanging out with the others, wants to socialise more . . . and I give in.

It is only the six of us and not a big bash as promised. He is bolder than ever before, getting up right after I do and following me into the kitchen in front of everyone, pressing into me from behind in plain view of his girlfriend sitting on the couch in the living room. If she turns her head, she'll see him whispering into my hair, nuzzling my neck. I'm pinned against the sink and I can't breath, can't get the stench of him off of me. I see our reflection in the window, the huge whites of my eyes, my tight lips. I just want it to end, to be over, whether anyone believes me or not.

My boyfriend walks into the room just as he pulls away. My boyfriend isn't sure what he saw, but thinks maybe he saw something. I'm ready to just tell and be done with it, be thrown out of the group, be friendless, have everyone hate me . . . none of it matters anymore. I'm just so tired of trying to protect myself and never fully succeeding. I'm downing doubles of rye and coke, but I haven't been mixing them, the host has been doing all the bartending, it is only later that I wonder with what ingredients . . .

My face is starting to feel warm. I feel very far away, like I'm just a little speck deep inside this huge cavernous body of mine. My body feels foreign, heavy and light all at the same time. I'm not really here anymore but I don't know where I am. It feels like a long way off.

I find myself being led into the basement. There's a rec room, laundry room, spare beds and a bathroom. My friend is there with me. And my boyfriend . . . And him. But I don't even care that he's there with us, I'm giddy and warm and light. I'm incoherent, not making any sense, words tumble out of my mouth in the wrong order. This is a different kind of drunk. This is new.

We've got beer now and we're going to play caps. And it's only when I see my friend in her bra that I realise it's strip caps and people are losing . . . but I don't seem to be one of them. Am I playing? Am I here? I have a sense like I should care more about these things but I don't. I can't stop laughing and it's nice to be here with my friend and to be so giddy. It's a relief to have this good time together with her after these months of tension. And then the guys leave the room and soon after she says she has to go to the washroom. And I'm alone on the floor in the rec room, green indoor/outdoor carpeting stained with spilled drinks. I try to get up to go find everyone but I can't, my legs buckle underneath me.

And then I hear her yelling and crying, and my boyfriend rushes in and helps me to my feet. We're leaving. But what's wrong? Why is she crying? What is all the yelling about? The other couple comes downstairs. And my boyfriend has me in the hallway. Everyone is standing at the bottom of the stairs, my friend is striking the gunman and screaming. He's shielding his face with his hands. What's happened? She turns and looks at me and spits. He wanted to switch! she screams. I heard him asking if he wanted to swap for tonight, so he could have you. Her eyes are filled with hurt and rage and hate . . . hate for me.

My boyfriend's taking me out, forcibly, dragging me up the stairs. We're leaving and I'm glad. It's all out and over and I'm glad. Everyone hates me and I don't care. My boyfriend knows the truth, he believes me now. It's all over. I feel like I could sleep for a month.

Standing in the doorway putting on my winter boots. They are grey, pull on, Peter Pan style, but lined for winter walking. I see him come out of the basement, walk into the living room, reach under the couch, bring out the gun, come back into the kitchen, cock and point it at us. I watch this happen like a movie in slow motion. I can't understand what I'm seeing. It's like I'm standing outside my body off to the side watching the scene. I watch myself from a safer distance, hand slipped into boyfriend's, face blank, devoid of expression except for the googly eyes glossed with fear.

He's going to kill my boyfriend. Then he can have me. We'll go away in his truck and he will have me. And if the police find us he'll have to shoot me and then himself but it will be okay because first he'll have me and we'll be together at the end like we're supposed to be. This isn't what he wanted. If only I had given him what he wanted, none of this would have happened. It's all messed up and now people have to pay. Someone's going to die. And it's all my fault.

I am frozen. It's a fear unlike anything else. I'm looking down the double-barrel of a shotgun, loaded, cocked, ready to destroy. There is no survival. Guns kill deer and moose and bears . . . and people too. It's over. I'm holding my breath, completely still and silent, without even a twitch. This is how it ends in movies, not here, not in real life. It's some horrible nightmare and I'm going to wake up. WAKE UP!

Friends come out of the basement. There is screaming and crying and the other guy shoos the girls back downstairs after he sees the gun. The gunman isn't spooked by any of it. His eyes are locked on me. He's calm and deliberate. Pull the trigger, claim your prize. It's that simple. He is a hunter and I'm the prey, but my boyfriend is the target. The other guy approaches the gunman from behind, carefully, hands semi-raised in surrender, trying to rationalise and calm, soothe. The gunman allows him to approach, but he doesn't lower the gun, doesn't lower his gaze, holds me with his hazel eyes, probes me, touches me. My skin crawls.

And then the movie moves from slow motion into fast forward. I'm horrified as I watch the other guy lunge for the gun. Oh my God! It'll go off! And in a fraction of a second my boyfriend has opened the door, pulled me outside and we're running for the street. The night is freezing. And dark. And deserted. I expect at any moment to hear shots, to feel hot lead rip into my body. But my ears are full with my pounding heart, jagged breath, I can't hear anything else. My chest hurts from running, from the cold. We run, holding hands, fleeing on foot, not knowing whether to hide or keep running, eyes darting . . . there is nowhere to hide in the snow . . . expecting to hear the truck start behind us, expecting to be run down on the road like porcupine.
And then headlights on me and I'm trying to run out of the way, panicked, into the ditch, get away, get away.

It's okay, it's okay, it's not him, wrong type of headlights, my boyfriend knows cars and he's pushing me to the white line, forcing my arm out, thumb up, this is something I know how to do, this is familar. This is our way out of here. Please, please, please, I beg . . . and the car stops.

I know this car. I've been in this car before, but never with my boyfriend. It's a Malibu. There are four guys, friends of mine. I'm so happy to see them, I start crying, climb into the backseat between two of them. My boyfriend rides up front. The boys are nervous, they don't like my boyfriend because he is from downriver and going with one of their girls. Rightfully, I should be dating one of them. This is what they think. What has he done to her this time? What's wrong with her? And I can't stop crying but still I lie, there was a fight with my best friend, a girl thing is all. Shoulders relax in the front seat. There's no need for counterviolence. I turn around to look out the back window to see if we're being followed. The highway is dark.

At my road the boys want to know if I want a ride all the way home or where I'm going. Here is fine. We'll just get out here. My boyfriend and I huddle under the streetlight. He hugs me and kisses my forehead. We don't know what to do. We left in the middle of a fist fight over a gun. What happened? Is everyone okay? Has he been restrained? Is everyone dead? Is he coming for us right now? We don't know. Can't stand not knowing. Can't stand doing nothing.

We walk to my friend's house, where her sister is babysitting younger siblings. I want her to call his house, ask to talk to her sister, make sure things are okay. I try to be vague but she won't help me until I tell her everything. It's such a relief to speak of it. She calls, but there is no answer. We're worried. Her parents come home. It's obvious I am distressed but we tell them nothing, make light stories to encourage them to stop prodding, insist that I've just been a bad girl, drinking too much and now I'm weepy. Nothing to worry about.

My friend bursts through the front door, wild-eyed, angry, accusing . . . I can't believe you'd come here . . . I can't believe you'd tell them . . . It's not what you think . . . don't listen to her . . . she's a liar . . . he didn't mean to do it . . . she's been teasing him for years . . . And I'm trying to interrupt, trying to tell her they don't know, I didn't tell, I didn't do anything wrong . . . and she's striking at me and pulling my hair, hysterical . . . I don't feel the blows, don't feel anything, numb. My boyfriend is pulling her off me and her sister is telling her parents everything and I get up and walk through the chaos, out the front door into the quiet snow. I start walking home. I don't have a coat. My boyfriend runs and catches up, dresses me, zips me, puts my hand in his pocket and leads me.

One foot in front of the other. That's all I can understand, all I can think about right now. Left, right, left, right, stride, stride . . . home.

I shiver under the covers. My boyfriend can't warm me, can't calm me. I sleep in fits and starts, waking in sudden screams every time a car passes the house. I dream he's out there, with the gun, waiting. I dream he shoots holes through the house, killing my family, my boyfriend, my dog . . . but never me. When everyone is dead he enters the house and finds me quivering in my bedroom closet. Then he makes me his. Terrible nightmares. I'm afraid to sleep alone. My boyfriend wants to sleep on the couch because I keep waking him up and he has to work most mornings. The first night is not the worse, every night is equally bad for many weeks. The nightmares stay with me for years, trail me into early adulthood, once in an odd while still resurface.

At school I am shunned by the girls. They refuse to speak to me, refuse to listen. It's generally agreed upon that I did something to lead him on, that I was trying to steal him away from my friend. For a week I am completely on my own, a true loner, whispered about when people think I can't hear, pointed at, wondered about. I am a freak. I am miserable. I don't want to go to school. Don't want to get out of bed. Don't want to do anything. I'm depressed. Making lists in my notebook of new and inventive ways to kill myself passes the time. Most of the time I wish he had shot me.

My friend breaks up with him within a few weeks of the incident, mostly because her parents forbid her to see him anymore. He is no longer welcome in their home. Her family soon moves and she starts going to another school. My other friend drifts back to me but only after I agree to silence. We will never speak of these things and pretend like nothing ever happened. She's not interested in what happened, doesn't want to hear my side of things. It's a deal I can live with, I'm good at pretending.
The incident slowly fades from public recollection.

Four years pass before I see him again. I have graduated high school and moved away. I come home for a few weeks vacation at my parents. I find myself at a party. I don't know it at the time, but the party is at his new girlfriend's house. I've heard about the new girlfriend, heard they are engaged. But I don't know her, don't realise this is her party. It's an outside party, and it's huge. People are everywhere on the lawn, in the drive, throughout the yard, cars line both sides of the road for a half mile in both directions . . . I'm walking alone, passing through clusters of people, looking for friends.

I pass through some groups and there he is, right in front of me. He's standing, hugging his girlfriend from behind, kissing her ear. He sees me and smiles. A slow grin. Like he's been expecting me. He winks. Whispers something and then leaves her. Starts walking toward me, smiling . . . I turn and bolt, zigzagging through clusters, muttering hello if I recognize people. Every now and then I turn to see where he is and he's still coming. He's tall, I can see his head above most others. I'm trying to walk fast rather than all out run, trying to compress myself into as short a person as I can be so maybe he will lose sight of me amongst all the people.

I'm not watching where I'm going. I run right into a guy I know. We collide and I scream a little. He laughs, thinks it's funny that I'm jumpy and spooked. He's just arrived. He has a car. It's parked down the road. I grab him by the arm, whirl him around and demand that he take me for a ride. I assure him I've scouted the party and there are more happening things elsewhere. I kidnap this man and piss off another girl in the process, but I don't care. I latch on. Taking one final look back I see that he's stopped a few feet from us. His eyes are flashing. His jaw is clenched. For now, I am safe.

I've seen you walk unafraid
I've seen you in the clothes you've made
Can you see the beauty inside of me?
What happened to the beauty I had inside of me?

Mood: dark
Drinking: coffee, black
Listening To: U2, City of Blinding Lights
Hair: blonder than I used to be, but not as naive