(Eventually) In the Bar: Valentines Day
She can't make the targets fall.
No matter how hard she concentrates, she can't even see the tin can soldiers lined up beyond the trembling barrel of the Colt in her hand. It's quiet out at the range on a cold afternoon, but her ears ring with a cacophony of shaking iron and rushing blood, echoing like drums in her head.
She grits her teeth -- so hard she can hear it, too -- and takes six more unsuccessful shots. Shit. She's quivering from the inside out. It's radiating from the wound in her side, leaking anxiety and fear and sickness like a poison, humming through every inch of her. The same image flashes before her eyes in every split second before her gun discharges:
The barrel of a sawed-off rifle, igniting with a hell-hot blast.
She gives up. She's been at this for hours in the cold with no results; nothing she tries can make her hand steady, because nothing she thinks can make her heart steady. She bottles all the aggression and frustration up, taking it out instead on the soles of her boots as she stomps her way back to the bar. She needs a drink. Something -- anything -- to keep her mind off of Kenedy.
No matter how hard she concentrates, she can't even see the tin can soldiers lined up beyond the trembling barrel of the Colt in her hand. It's quiet out at the range on a cold afternoon, but her ears ring with a cacophony of shaking iron and rushing blood, echoing like drums in her head.
She grits her teeth -- so hard she can hear it, too -- and takes six more unsuccessful shots. Shit. She's quivering from the inside out. It's radiating from the wound in her side, leaking anxiety and fear and sickness like a poison, humming through every inch of her. The same image flashes before her eyes in every split second before her gun discharges:
The barrel of a sawed-off rifle, igniting with a hell-hot blast.
She gives up. She's been at this for hours in the cold with no results; nothing she tries can make her hand steady, because nothing she thinks can make her heart steady. She bottles all the aggression and frustration up, taking it out instead on the soles of her boots as she stomps her way back to the bar. She needs a drink. Something -- anything -- to keep her mind off of Kenedy.