Now she was waving the gun around. Britt crouched down, and Becky did the same.
“Mom, please,” Britt said.
“What other little secrets did you have with him?” her mother said, standing from the couch now.
“Becky, go. Call someone,” Britt said.
But Becky didn’t move. Either she was paralyzed by fear or she didn’t want to leave her best friend.
“Is that why he left me? Because ofyou?” her mother said.
She was right in Britt’s face now, spittle flying from her mouth. The gun dangled from her hand, as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. All it would take was one wrong movement, one fumble, one accidental bump against the trigger, and all their lives would be in danger.
“Mama,” Britt said.
She never called hermama. She was desperate for the term of endearment to take her mother out of whatever trance she was in.
“Mama,” she said again, still trying and failing to establish eye contact.
Her mother took another step toward Britt and stumbled enough that the gun fell from her hand. Britt held her breath, expecting a shot to go off. When there was nothing, she lunged for the gun, picked it up before her mother could.
It all happened so fast.
Her mother was on top of her, wrestling her for the gun, or just wrestling her to wrestle her, taking out all her anger on this child she’d birthed, her long fake nails clawing at Britt’s face. Britt would spend the rest of her life trying to understand how she could have done this, but in the moment, she was only trying to survive.
Becky screamed when the gun went off. The single blast was followed by a dreadful silence.
Britt’s ears rang. She had pulled the trigger, yes, but not with the intention of shooting anyone. She’d just wanted her mother to get off her. It had worked. Her mother had gotten off her.
Britt stood, surveying herself. Had she shot herself? She didn’t feel any pain, but she was in shock. She looked for red on her body, saw none. She looked to Becky next, Becky who was now standing against the door, her face white with terror.
“Are you okay?” Britt managed to ask.
Becky nodded and raised a shaky hand, pointing at Britt’s mother there on the floor.
She wasn’t moving.
Britt had seen her mother unmoving in the midst of so many blackouts that she wasn’t scared at first. Her mother was lying face down, and as Britt went to her, she saw it—a pool of red blooming from underneath her mother’s chest.
“Oh my god,” she said.
She rolled her mother over, saw that she had been shot. Britt’s mind flashed to the targets with the black silhouettes of human torsos. She had hit her mom just above her left breast, likely directly in the heart.
“Should I go call someone?” Becky asked.
Britt put two shaky fingers to her mother’s neck, like she’d seen people do in the movies. She didn’t think she felt a pulse, but she didn’t know. She was just a kid—how was she supposed to know?
“Yes,” Britt said. Then: “Wait.”
Becky turned, one hand on the door.
“She shot herself,” Britt said.
Becky furrowed her brow, confused.
“She did?” Becky said, her voice low and meek.
“She shot herself,” Britt repeated. “Right? I didn’t shoot her, right?”
