For Her - Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Child-hood

I remember back when my father was alive, he would take me up the country side to shoot. He had his gun license for 9 years before I was born but only truly used it when I was 11. We went to a field near where I lived to shoot some clay pigeons. I missed a lot but my dad was a pro, he hardly missed. He was a caring and gentle man, to see him do something so deadly, so well was a bit surreal at first. After a while I started to get the hang of it.
"Look down the barrel, don't expect the recoil, lean into her and fire." He would say
POW!
At first the ringing in my ears was unbearable, but I just got used to it. The kick back from the double barrel left a bruise on my right shoulder for a couple of days. When my dad noticed I was becoming extremely uncomfortable with the double barrel he suggested we try his handgun.
"Now your mum doesn't really know about this one, so it will be our little secret, hey champ?" he told me
He always called me champ when I was doing terrible at something. From his bag he retrieved a Walther PP handgun.

"Let's try this one, Champ." he said excitedly

After giving me quick instructions on how to load it and take safety off, it was time to pull the trigger and bang. I liked it. In a sinister kind of deep feeling in my stomach. I got extreme pleasure from the power in my hands. Now prior to this he had told me not to shoot the birds, but engrossed in power, I took aim at a flock of birds, closed my left eye, pulled the hammer down and before my dad could stop me; one of the birds dropped from the sky. My father smacked me across my face.

"What the hell are you doing! Didn't I tell you not to shoot the birds." My dad screamed at me.
Then I noticed that he was staring at me, in disbelief.
"You don't care do you, no remorse." He said in disappointment

He grabbed my hand and started to pull me towards the bird I had shot. As we got closer I noticed that the grass was moving around it, it wasn't dead but it was dying. Twitching like its life depended on it, rolling around aimlessly. He stood me closer to the bird.

"Look at him, his now suffering because of you!" He yelled at me

With a blank look on my face; I shot it again. It stopped twitching. My dad as fast as the bullet itself, grabbed the gun from my hand and smacked me again.
My dad never saw me as his innocent little boy ever again and I do truly feel sorrow for that. He referred to me as Damien to my mother and his work colleagues, a reference to the devil child from the 1976 film: 'The Omen.' That is when I started to become more and more reclusive. He died when I was 15 from a heart attack, mum followed shortly afterward.