The Shot

The Shot

by Jennifer Luckett

   Mari staggered home, bruised and swollen with orbs of anger to expel and hurl at her attacker until his wounds exceeded hers. Rocks and stones littered the park, but she lacked what she needed to weaponize them. After Mari cleaned her wounds and swallowed a handful of pills, she discarded her clothes and changed, tying a scarf around her neck to hide the fingerprints. 

  “Mari, I need you!” 

 “Coming, Dad!” Mari rushed to his side.

  “It hurts so much everywhere,” David said.

  “I know, Dad.” Mari shook her head, taking in her father’s clenched jaw, lines creasing his forehead into a mask of excruciating pain.

  “You need to move, Dad, even though it’s difficult.” Mari squeezed his shoulder and handed him two of his pain meds that she would need to refill soon.

 “I know, love.” David brushed Mari’s hand, and she winced.

 “You look tired. Did something happen?”

 “It's sprained, from a fall.”  A lie rolled off Mari’s tongue with ease, and she blinked away a tear. “I’m OK, Daddy. And I’ll stop for more supplies after work tomorrow.” David nodded and hobbled to the living room sofa, supported by her uninjured hand.

  “I just need to rest for a while.” 

   In her room, Mari threw off the scarf and collapsed onto her bed, letting the dam of tears burst. She hadn’t noticed anyone trailing her detour through the park. When the man appeared and shoved Mari onto the grass, she initially thought she’d stumbled over a stick. Her confusion morphed into sudden terror, and she screamed when he wielded a knife and attempted to slash  her throat. He fled when Mari landed a powerful kick to his jaw, not before he bruised her neck and arms, leaving her with an array of scratches and superficial cuts. Mari feared he was a relative of her father’s victim who targeted her. Some people were committed to revenge, risking punishment for an amount of time determined by their chosen method of violence- ten years and upward for murder using a knife or other unlawful arms. Of course, no penalty existed for using the sling shooter, the only legal weapon for protection, to kill your target with five stones or less, a virtually impossible task. David served twenty years for bludgeoning his wife’s murderer and suffered debilitating abuse during his sentence. The court confiscated his shooter following his conviction, and familial statues prohibited Mari from owning one until her 25th birthday, though she had no intention of waiting six more months. When her breathing finally evened out and her racing thoughts slowed to a crawl, thanks to her father’s sleep meds, rage retreated into gratitude for her survival and resolution in her plan for retribution. 

  The next morning, Mari passed the deserted neighborhood park on her way to work and paused to rest on a sidewalk bench. She closed her eyes and caught her breath, beams of sunshine warming her skin. The park was one of her favorite places in her neighborhood for reading or birdwatching, and she wondered whether she’d ever feel as carefree as she once had here.

  Mari collected herself and resumed her commute, reaching the building ten minutes later. She stopped at the ladies’ room, dabbing at perspiration inching along her hairline. Cold water splashed onto her face provided a small comfort, drops of water stinging like his fist under her brow. 

 “Mari, are you OK?” Jane whispered, kneeling beside her.

 “No, I’m not. I was attacked on the way home last night.” Mari unclenched her fist and allowed Jane’s outstretched arms to pull her into a warm embrace.

 “What are you gonna do, Mar?”

 “I need some protection but I can’t get one yet, you know.”

 Jane squeezed her hand. “My brother gave me his old one. We can get it after work, if you want.”

  Mari nodded, her aches subsided a bit. Jane hoisted her, and they strolled into their counseling office to begin their day of advising and advocating for violent crime victims.

  Later that afternoon, when a tear-streaked, terrified teenager named Sammi came in following her own assault, she listened to the girl’s story, of callused hands and limbs of steel pinning her to the floor. Mari stemmed hot tears threatening to sweep down her face, as she handed Sammi a box of tissues and directed the girl to the resources she was mandated to share.

 “You are not alone,” Mari said, a sentiment she often uttered and no longer believed. 

 “I know,” Sammi said. She had no visible injuries, though Mari knew Sammy’s soul bore wounds no therapy or support groups could heal. 

   An hour after work, Mari carried her father’s prescription and Jane’s sling shooter,  a lightweight older model, concealed in her bag into the house. After she made their dinner, Mari retreated to her bedroom to read a true crime novel she’d recently downloaded, though she preferred biographies and mysteries. She laid the book on the nightstand when she was halfway through the case to sleep, which eluded her.

   Mari arrived at the deserted park, long shadows dancing on the sidewalk. Her weapon in hand, she hunted for stones and unearthed several large smooth ones. She’d forgotten her watch, and paced for an unknown amount of time until a pair of young women emerged. They all exchanged glances, an unspoken secret passed between them. 

  When she heard the screams up ahead, Mari rushed forward and leveled her weapon to fling the heaviest stone from her shooter. A body thudded onto the walk. The shorter woman shouted, ”You’re amazing, one stone and you got him!” 

   Mari jogged to the spot, recoiling at the tiny bloodied crater in her attacker’s forehead. Orange leaves stuck in strands of the shorter woman’s hair, a ripped sleeve hung from her slender arm. She grasped Mari’s shoulder. “You’re a hero!”

 “No, I’m no hero.” The unused stones slid from her hand, echoing on the pavement. 

 The taller one spoke, “Thank you for saving us!”

  Mari nodded and walked away, free and clear, having executed an improbable, perfect shot. The weightless weapon dangled from her trembling fingers, as she struggled to bear the oppressive burden of vengeance.