The Gun

His heart was beating too fast. He took deep, slow breaths to try to try to slow it down and steady his shake. He stared at the gun, inside he was a mixture of hate and fear.

This was something he had to do. He had to keep this quiet, he couldn’t risk her finding out, the consequences were too terrible to consider and he couldn’t go through all that again.

It was as if in slow motion as his arm reached out and his fingers curled around the gun’s handle. His finger brushed the trigger and he paused. He had one go, one attempt, if he messed this up there was no going back.

He turned. The room was quiet, deathly quiet as though it was preparing itself. Finally, when he felt he was ready, he picked up one half of the china dog and ran the nib of the glue gun carefully around its broken edge.

Holding his breath again he put the gun down, lifted the head of the hideous dog and held it tight against the neck. He left it as long as he could before removing his hand and seeing the complete dog in his hand.

He stared at the hideous ornament his eyes focused on the join. It was almost invisible, his mother would never know. He was safe. Finally he breathed out and swore to himself that he would never play football in the front room again. No, he was never going to put himself through this again. There would be no more little 'accidents'.

He placed the ornament back on the shelf within the slight ring of dust that marked its original position. Finally he smiled, turned and saw the slight whisp of smoke coming from the scorched top of the wooden dining table where the hot glue gun sat weeping and accusingly.