Crack, boom, splat. My chest grew heavy as my ears began to ring. A pearl-shaped drop rolled down my flushed cheeks as I gasped for air. I was terrified. Of what, I couldn’t tell you. All I knew was that I was the one who pulled the trigger.
“All right recruits, sit in your chairs and try to pay attention to me, won’t ya? What I’m about to tell you is vital for everyone’s safety.”
I sat down first, not knowing what the day would entail. Shortly after me the rest of my family sat down. They were especially eager to begin. As the man spoke, I got more and more nervous, so much so that I had to sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting. It felt like hours sitting there waiting for the lecture to finally be over. But again, I was only twelve when this happened so everything seemed dramatized from my pre-teen hormones.
At last, the speech was over and I was finally able to unstick my thighs from the incredibly uncomfortable fold-up chair. As the man led us out of the cabin, he showed us our rifles. Not only was mine a beast in size, but I could hardly get the thing off the ground, let alone up to my shoulder. Needless to say, my anxieties did not go down after retrieving the firearm.
After the man shot his rifle a couple of times, it was my turn to step up to the plate. This was it, the moment I’d been dreading from the start. He counted off, “... one… two… three...SHOOT!” There it was, the moment I broke into tears. I had fired the gun, and was a decent shot too, but something within me just couldn’t bear such an act.
As I’ve come to analyze the situation, I’ve come to a hypothesis as to why I would have reacted in such a way. Shooting a gun was, possibly, some sort of trigger from a past experience. This trigger could be distantly related to some memories from when I was a kid, all the way from my irrational fear of burglars to witnessing the death of family members. Even though these deaths were not brought by guns, I knew that the gun had a potential to cause death. I knew that by using the gun, I had the power of death in my hands.
For as long as I can remember, fear has always been a big part of my life, especially when I was younger. I remember numerous times when I would be laying in bed being so consumed with fear that I could barely breathe. My imagination would ignite from the littlest creaks and murmurs. I know I’m not unique when I say I was afraid of the dark, but whenever this would happen, the fear consumed me so much that I couldn’t move. I’d be longing to run across the hall for my parents comfort, but even those few steps were too much to bear. Instead I would spend the entire night laying dead still listening to the silent whispers of the night, until I eventually succumbed to sleep.
This fear followed me through my entire life, wavering in its severity as I grew older. But, there came a time in my life when I was no longer a little kid scared of the dark. At this time I was about 13 years old, starting a new school for the first time. My grandfather had been at a memory care facility for a couple years prior for Alzheimers. My family and I would regularly visit him, but due to his disease, whenever he saw me he didn’t know who I was. A few months after starting school, my grandfather passed away. After that, my other grandfather, who was over 90, died from his old age. Both grandfathers passed in the same year, and due to their particular circumstances, neither of them really got to know me. The only grandfathers I would ever have died before my life really started. After that, the dark seemed miniscule compared to the loss I had dealt with that year.
The man counted off again, “… one… two… three… SHOOT!” I pulled the trigger once more. With each shot I took, the denser the tears streamed down my face. “It’s a hit!” he exclaimed. Everyone was so impressed; I didn’t care. I just wanted it to be over. Nevertheless, I continued to shoot until dusk fell upon us and it was time to head inside.
It was finally over. The man came up to me and patted me on the back, “My girl, I have never
seen someone as strong as yourself. You pushed through those tears and were a mighty fine
shot. It was incredible!” The man then sat us down to take a picture of me with my family and our rifles to put on display in his office. When the blinding flash from the camera ignited, the man exclaimed, “I will tell the story of the girl who was ‘the crying good shot’ to all my clients here on out!”
As my family and I headed home for the night (after I threw up in the back of my mom’s minivan), I reflected on the very traumatic, yet compelling day and learned one thing above all else: I was strong. Stronger than I thought I was. Little did I know that I had the ability to push through such a barrier and continue to persevere. This day was a day that showed me that I have the will of a fighter. Someone who won’t give up just because they’re afraid of what might happen. This experience gave me, what I like to call, armour; an armour of strength and courage. As I grow and enter into adult life I will carry my armour with me to push through whatever my future may entail. Undoubtedly, fear will always be something that I will have to deal with, even when I’m not a kid anymore, and death is inevitable, but the armour I gained that day at the shooting range will help me to persevere through whatever challenges the future might hold.