Chapter Text
hunting rifle
The first time I had gone hunting, I threw up. Real fucking tough of me, I know. I don’t need to hear it. Dad never gave me any grief over the whole ordeal. Hell, I was a kid. Barely even twelve. I was concerned about the duck’s fucking family that I made myself sick over it.
Soda still brings up the story sometimes. Like when he got drafted. We talked about shooting, about hunting, and he cracked that movie-star grin of his and leaned back in his chair.
“You think I’ll have to kill some ducks over there?”
“Hell, maybe,” I said, shrugging. I hoped he wouldn’t. Maybe it would be like the duck. Maybe he’d throw up like I did, hunched over a man with a star for an eye and begging to god for forgiveness for sins not yet committed. “Not sure if ducks are even native to southern Asia.”
Darry glanced between the two of us with a grimace. “Y’all are gonna give me a fucking aneurysm.”
“Jus’ remember to take Dad’s rifle while over there.” I ignored Darry’s remark. Not intentionally. I was just so attuned to drowning out his voice that this was no different. Soda’s sardonic smile faltered as he exchanged looks with Darry.
“Not sure if they’ll let me take it overseas.”
“Then take it to basic. Or take a piece of it.” Yeah, deconstructing Dad’s hunting rifle— rife with symbolism, if I were half-assing this. I kind of was. I had said it in earnest. Shit, aren’t we all stupid when in pain?
“I’m not takin’ apart Dad’s rifle,” Darry interjected. “And neither are either of y’all.”
Soda’s shoulders slouched. I thought about the duck again and nearly puked on the table.