Victoria’s Diary
December 20, 2017
I don’t even know what to make of what happened today.
I was sitting on the couch, watching television, when Adam came home. He gave me a look when he saw me sitting around, but what else am I supposed to do? Irina does all the cooking and Maggie does all the cleaning, so where does that leave me? I had one job interview a few weeks ago that was over an hour’s drive away with traffic, and then they never called me back. I tried going running a few days ago and nearly slipped on a patch of ice. It’s been a particularly snowy and cold January, and it’s just too slippery to run anywhere.
I suggested to Adam that I might take a class. There are some night classes at the local high school. But he kept insisting that I only wanted to take the class to meet men, so he wouldn’t let me use the credit card.
So my days are filled with game shows in the morning and binge- watching television series on Netflix in the afternoon. And a lot of snacking, which I try my best to conceal from Adam. Unfortunately, I had three sour cream and onion potato chips in my mouth at once when he walked in, and he gave me a really dirty look. He doesn’t like it when I snack between meals. I also knew he didn’t approve of what I was wearing, which was my comfy sweats. I thought he was going to be out all day or else I would have dressed differently. I always make sure to have a nice outfit on when he gets home.
“So you’ve just given up on yourself,” he said. “Is that it?”
I brushed potato chip crumbs off my sweatshirt and sat up straight. “No…”
He shook his head in disgust. “Go get changed.”
I knew this was a discussion that had the potential to escalate quickly, so I went upstairs to our bedroom without argument. He was right, anyway. I looked like a mess. My sweatpants and sweatshirt weren’t even clean—
there was a big stain on the shirt. Embarrassing. But I hadn’t thought it mattered since I was just hanging around the house.
I sifted through my clothing, trying to find something he would deem acceptable. I pulled out a pair of designer jeans I purchased a couple of months ago, when my old jeans became too snug to fit me, even with the top button left open. I bought a couple of new pairs two sizes larger than my old pairs.
Except when I put these new jeans on, they were too tight to button.
The only pants I have that fit me anymore are my sweatpants.
I was screwed. If I came back downstairs in sweatpants, it would be a massive argument. I had to problem-solve—fast.
So I kept the jeans on and wore one of my longer shirts to hide the fact that the button was open. I didn’t know how I was even going to sit down with those tight jeans on.
That reminds me—I’m going to have to save up my money to buy some new clothes yet again. There’s no way I can ask him for money to buy new pants because I can’t squeeze into my old ones anymore. That’s an argument I don’t want to have.
Anyway, when I came back downstairs, Adam was fiddling with a small black briefcase he had been carrying when he came into the house. He had placed it on the kitchen table and was now peering inside.
“Is that the proof of your book?” I asked. I still haven’t even caught a glimpse of the new book yet—I don’t even know the title.
He shook his head. “Nope. It’s a gun.” “A… what?”
There are two kinds of people in the world. People who are comfortable with firearms. And people who look at a gun and are filled with absolute, crippling fear. Guess which one I am.
He opened up the case entirely so that I could see a pistol embedded in the foam. I instinctively took a step back. I had never been this close to a gun before. And honestly, I never had any interest in being this close to a gun. I would have been perfectly happy to go my whole life without ever being in the same room as a gun.
“Why did you buy a gun?” I nearly screamed at him.
“Vicky.” He lifted his green eyes to meet mine. “We are in the middle of nowhere. Completely isolated. If somebody breaks in here, we’ll be
sitting ducks. We need this for protection.”
I hugged my arms to my chest. “Do you even know how to use it?”
He laughed and removed the gun from the case. I took a step back. “Of course I do. My father took me to a gun range when I was a teenager for firing practice. Everybody should know how to shoot a gun. It’s in the second amendment.”
“I don’t want to even touch that thing.”
He rolled his eyes. “You know, I’m not here all the time. You should know how to use this.”
“I’d rather not.”
He held the gun in his right hand and pointed it in the direction of the wall. “Well, what if some strange man comes into the house while I’m gone?”
I just shook my head.
“You’d probably like it.” He swiveled the gun toward me. I stared into the barrel and my stomach dropped. “You’d probably think he was attractive and fuck him.”
My mouth was almost too dry to get out any words. “Please don’t point that thing at me.”
“It’s not loaded.” But he put it down. Thank goodness. “Come on. At least let me show you how to use it. We don’t have to go to a firing range or anything.”
I hated the idea of having a gun in the house. But at the same time, he did have a point. We were in the middle of nowhere. If somebody broke in, they could do whatever they wanted to us and we’d be defenseless. A gun might level the playing field.
“Fine,” I said. “One lesson.”
So Adam showed me how to load the cartridge of the gun with bullets. The gun was heavier than I thought it would be when I held it in my hand. The whole thing felt very surreal. He turned the safety on, then he nodded at the front door. “Get your coat. I’ll show you how to shoot.”
“We’re going to fire the gun?”
He rolled his eyes. “What good is a gun if you can’t fire it?
I have no intention of ever firing that gun. Not ever. Maybe I could threaten somebody with it. I could shake it in a threatening way. But when push comes to shove, I don’t think I could ever pull the trigger. But of
course, when Adam gets it in his head he wants to do something, it’s very hard to dissuade him. So I got my coat and followed him outside.
It snowed yesterday and most of the snow still hadn’t been cleared away. Our entire gigantic front yard was a bed of white powder. I was wearing my boots, but they sunk so deeply into the snow, my feet got drenched instantly. I desperately needed a new pair of boots but I hadn’t saved up enough money to get decent ones. Also, I stupidly left my gloves in the house.
Adam pointed to a tree in our massive lawn right next to the shed where we kept the gardening supplies. (My she-shed dreams have never come to fruition.) It was about twenty feet away. “I’m going to have you aim for that tree.”
He explained to me what I had to do. Hold the gun with my right hand and my index finger resting on the side of the cylinder. Then wrap my other fingers around the front of the grip. Tuck my thumb in like I’m making a fist. Then take my left hand and wrap it around the front of the right hand. By the end of the lesson, my fingers were bright red from the cold.
Adam demonstrated the grip himself, so I could observe somebody who knew what they were doing. Of course, he had on his nice warm leather gloves. He pointed the gun in the direction of the tree. “You need to squeeze the gun as hard as you can without making the barrel shake,” he explained. “Then you want to bring it to eye-level when you point at the target.”
Without any warning, he squeezed the trigger.
I always knew guns were noisy. But I wasn’t prepared for how terrifyingly loud the sound was when that stupid gun went off. I let out a yelp and jumped back about two feet, which Adam found hilarious. My ears were ringing. I could see the splintering in the tree and realized he had hit his target.
“Now it’s your turn,” he said.
He handed the gun to me. I tried my best to grip it the way he had just shown me, but my hands were shaking too badly. My fingers were now completely numb. He laughed at the way I was shaking, and he put his arms around me to help steady my grip. It didn’t help.
“Pull the trigger,” he told me. “Remember—steady, even pressure.”
I knew he wasn’t going to let up until I fired the stupid gun. So I pointed at the tree with my shaking hands and squeezed the trigger.
It was even louder when I was the one firing. I felt the recoil in my right shoulder and then a jab of pain.
“You missed the tree,” Adam said with a smirk. “I think the bullet hit the shed.”
“What a shock,” I muttered. My ears were still ringing.
We went back into the house, and Adam showed me where he was keeping the gun: right on top of our bedroom closet. So in summary, I will now be sleeping with a gun six feet from my head. I made him absolutely promise we are going to keep it unloaded and not touch it unless we are certain there’s an intruder in the house.
As much as I hate having a gun in the house, I suppose he does make a good point. We are in the middle of nowhere. If I call the police, how quickly could they possibly arrive? Maybe it isn’t a terrible idea to have a gun for protection.
Anyway, it’s not like I have a say in the matter.
