Sparrow

He pointed his gun to Brock’s head and shouted, “Don’t shoot her!”

Brock dropped his gun, his mouth hanging open and realization washing over his face. It was over for him.

“Don’t do this,” Troy shouted again.

I was confused. What? Brock wasn’t holding the gun anymore.

“You devil,” Brock whispered, the accusation directed at my husband. “I’ll save you a place in hell.”

“Don’t wait up.” Troy’s voice dropped considerably. “I’ll be late.”

Then, with a smile, Troy produced a panicked scream. “I said drop the gun now!”

A shot rang through the air. Brock fell to the ground, his body hitting with a thud that echoed between the towering trees. My head shot up. Still shaking, everything shaking, I gaped at his prone body next to me. Horror etched his face. I saw the surprise in his eyes as the dark red stain of blood bloomed on his mouse-gray jacket, spreading like an oil spill with every second that passed.

Too stunned and weak to try and get up, I lay there near the hole he dug for me.

Next thing, I saw Troy’s shoes as he stopped inches from my face. Relief washed over me. I sobbed, releasing every single tear I’d been holding all day. He was here. Troy was here, and all of a sudden, everything was okay. Despite what I knew, what I didn’t want to know, despite my life with him being over, it was okay. I knew I’d be okay.

I was so tired of being strong. Being taken care of, even by him, was a concession I was glad to make.

“Sorry, Red.” He picked up Brock’s gun with a handkerchief and walked to where Brock had been standing before the bullet hit him. “I promise I won’t even graze your ear.”

Then he shot me.

Troy Brennan, my husband, shot me.

He missed my ear by an inch, but I still felt the heat radiating from the bullet as it flew next to me. The scent of gunpowder burned my nostrils, and my eyes rolled back in their sockets.

I lost it for a moment, barely noticing Troy’s arms closing around me. The next thing I knew he was picking me up. He carried me like an altar boy, and I was his cross. Swinging my arms over his neck, hugging me tight like I could evaporate at any moment.

I clung to my mother’s white sheet and sobbed. I don’t think he noticed the sheet. I’m not even sure that I noticed what I was doing at this point. So much had happened so fast, it was almost like I was an outsider peeking into a reality that wasn’t really mine.

A second person ran through the trees in our direction. A small man with utilitarian clothes and sharp nose. A cop. He hurried toward Brock’s body and felt for a pulse.

I was still woozy and incoherent, but I noticed Brock’s gun was back in his hand.

My husband, ever the fixer.

“You shot him?” he roared at Troy.

Troy’s arms tightened around my body protectively. It started to hurt. So did my forehead and foot. Everything hurt. Everything felt broken. Especially my heart.

“Self defense,” Troy said, and I felt him through my shoulder pointing his chin at Brock. “He shot my wife, missed only by a few inches, and he was going to try again.”

Not true. Brock never did any such thing. Troy was the one who shot him, and Troy was the one who used Brock’s gun. Of course, I didn’t utter a word to the cop. I let Troy carry me to a black SUV I didn’t recognize, my arms flailing like they were no longer part of my body. I released my hold on the sheet, but he bent down, picked it up and flung it over his shoulder. He knew I knew, and somehow, that made me even sadder.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Red.” He kept on repeating it, more to himself than to me.

“I know everything,” I whispered into his chest. “How could you have done that to my mom? How could they have done this to us?”

His muscles tensed around my body. Chest, biceps and even his fingers stiffened.

“Sparrow—”

I fainted the second he placed me on the seat, and for the first time since everything happened, I truly didn’t give a damn if I woke up or not. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Nothing.

I didn’t come to until I was at the hospital, and even then, everything was a blur. The first few minutes, I thought I was still in the woods, still with Brock, or even worse, dead. Then I felt the needle in my wrist and the scent of antiseptic and anesthetics attacked my nose. Blinking slowly, trying to gain some control over my vision, I saw a hazy figure sitting by my bed. I realized it was Pops, his head between his hands. His body shook, and I figured he was crying.