text: Jenifer Ruano So Far From Your Weapon 
   
   
    What goes around . . . 
   
  The Ford Falcon rolled in off the interstate and onto the graveled parking lot of the old motel. It was dusk and the setting sun cast a red shadow over the east side of the building. The weathered and battered car drove slowly along the desolate lot, and the woman inside it took care to note each number on every piss yellow door of the building. There were five other cars in the lot and none of them were his but she knew he would show up here, he always did. Whether alone or with some piece of trash who was willing to open her legs for him, but she hoped he’d be alone.  
  As the Falcon pulled into the space furthest from the building she cut the engine and the car heaved back in protest before sputtering violently to a rest. The sunset had washed out the sky to an orange haze which fell onto the hood of the car, revealing the chipped paint and specks of rust. She sat lighting a cigarette and waited for the sky to go dark.  After a while she pulled her oversized purse onto her lap and began rummaging through it before pulling out the Colt 45 pistol.  She stared at the dulled silver and with ease ran her thumb over the barrel and then up to the chamber.  Taking a deep breath she tucks the gun securely into the back waistband of her jeans. An hour passed and then another when finally . . . darkness.  The aroma of cigarettes and leather permeated the small interior of the car and made her slightly nauseous but she lit another smoke anyway and the flame blazed in front of her hazel eyes.  
  Where the hell was he?  She thought, growing more annoyed.  
  Just then headlights reflected off of one of the windows on the building and shot across the parking lot as a black pick-up truck pulled in, his pick-up. As he drove past the Falcon she sunk down into her seat to avoid being seen.  A thousand butterflies fluttered in her throat at the sight of him. As the truck pulled into a space its brakes squeaked irritatingly and then went silent. He emerged from the truck in gray jeans, boots and a black buttoned up shirt. He takes a drag from his cigarette before flicking it onto the dirt road.  A billow of smoke clung to the air above him as he slammed the truck door shut and walked toward the stairs that lead up to the second floor. He was drunk and his heavy boots weaved and bobbed on his unstable legs.  
  She studied him through the dirty glass of the Falcon before bringing the ashy end of her cigarette to her mouth as she took a final puff.  A smirk rippled over her lips. Her eyes watched him as he walked all the way up to his room and until his door shut. As she exited the Falcon she exhaled a long stream of smoke out the side of her mouth. Shrugging into her leather jacket she reached into the pocket and fingered with the bullets like they were diamonds, feeling some sort of grim satisfaction. She pulled out two from her pocket she reached around and removed the pistol from her waistband and slid the bullets into the chamber and locked it into place. Her hands were sweaty so she rubbed the moisture onto her jeans and then returned the gun to her waistband and walked toward the building.   
  Her mind began to wander as her boots crunched and kicked up dust over the loose gravel while she walked.  She remembered all the beatings and the sleepless nights where she dared not move for fear he’d wake in a drunken rage. She remembered the lies he told and to the whore who slept in their bed.  And with that her pace quickened into a rage fueled strut and marched up the steps to the second floor.   
  When she arrived at the top step she looked down the long corridor and heard the muffled sounds of a television reverberating off the window of one of the rooms closest to her. His door was three doors down and the light in the hall above it flickered like a strobe. She stopped in front of his door and her heart swelled into her ears.  Taking in a deep breath she pounded her fist on the door.  
  "What?” He barked from the other side.  She could hear his heavy footsteps approaching the door.   
  “It’s me,” she called. “Open up!”  
  Silence fell on the other side of the door and as she stood there she could feel his presence on the other side.  It was as if they were in a faceoff with only the door between them.   
  The door lock snapped loudly and the chain hit the door, making a jangly sound before the door creaked open.  He stood there with his wiry brown hair, looking longer than she remembered it in messy tendrils around his face. He leaned against the door frame and smirked.  His dark blue jeans were stained and he smelled of oil and booze.  She wanted to slap him. 
  “Baby,” he said smoothly and then shook his head from side-to-side.  “Mmm-mmm. Don’t you look good tonight.”    
  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” She asked, softening the tone of her voice as much as possible but the sight of him made her positively ill.  
  He raised an eyebrow and then narrowed his eyes on her before stepping aside and allowing her to pass. She walked in. With a click the door shut behind her and she could feel him close against her back.  She gritted her teeth as he put his hand against the nape of her neck and moved her hair away. A shiver ran through her and before she could pull away he suddenly pulled her close, burying his face in her neck.  
  “Get off me damn it!” She cried, ripping herself away from him.  
  He stammered backwards. “What the hell is your problem pussycat?” He asked maliciously. She fell silent and he stepped toward her. “Why else did you come here?” 
  Suddenly she pulled the gun from her waistband and then clicks off the safety and eases it to her side.  His eyes followed.  
  “What are you doing?” He whispered.  His eyes pierced her. 
  “You asked why I came here,” she said. 
  He laughed, dismissing her, and took another step but stopped cold with the barrel of the gun in his face.  
  “Now listen baby.” He puts his hands up. “Have you lost your goddamned mind?” he asked.  
  “You tell me . . . baby.” She smirked. 
  Darkness fell on his face like a heavy curtain and the shadows in the room lengthened and coil against his penetrating stare.  
  “You won’t do it,” he spat. 
  She bit the inside of her lip. 
  “You can’t do it,” he taunts. “You don’t have it in you.” 
  “Shut up!” She shouted and tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. 
  His glanced sideways to the bedside table and her eyes followed. There was a pocket knife next to the lamp. In a flash he lunged for the knife, surprising her and she stammered backwards, accidently pulling the trigger, but the gun doesn't fire.  As he turned to face her with a devilish smile she saw the blade catch the gleam of the soft glow of the lamp. 
  “I told you that you couldn’t do it you bitch!” He snarled as he walked towards her. 
  She took a step back, losing her footing against the bed and then regained her stature. He finger pulled the trigger again and a blast echoed loudly through the room.  A look of shock bleeds down his face at the same time crimson began to stain his shirt.  He looked at her and then down to his blood soaked shirt where he pulled back his bloody hand in disbelief.  She held her breath.    
  He fell to his knees and then braced himself on the mattress to try and stand, but fell again. Drops of blood fall onto the dirt green carpet below. 
  “You damn bitch.” He gasped and looked at her. His eyes were big glossy globes before he collapsed to the floor with a thud. 
  The air was thick and the smell of gunfire still hung heavy in the room. She returned the gun to her waistband and then knelt in front of him as a dark puddle of blood began to form around him.  She took care not to get any on her dusty boots as she maneuvered to listen for any breathes coming from his mouth.  His breathing narrowed and then hollowed, until it stopped completely. She stared into his face. His dark eyes were lifeless; an empty desert. 
  As she stood over his body she realized how silent the motel had become.  Cautiously she walked to the door and using the sleeve of her shirt, she opened it quietly and stepped out into the night.  Beads of sweat against her neck instantly cool against the desert wind.  It was dark now and elm trees swayed to and fro.  The motel door clicked behind her and escaped down the long corridor. Once she reached her car she lit another cigarette and looked up at the room. Her hair trails in the wind and she took a long drag from the cigarette.  She smirked and pulled the car door open and slid into the leather seat and starts the car. The old Falcon car erupted into a loud rumble and she revved the engine twice before flooring the pedal.  The tires peeled off the road and onto the interstate, spitting dirt and rock behind it. 
  END 
   
   
   Text: © J. Ruano, 2011
  All Rights Reserved All rights reserved. Publication Date: December 24th 2011 https://www.bookrix.com/-jenwen