We Both Reached for the Gun
Fighting to Stay Alive in My Own Home
I did try to take the gun once.
I forget why we’d even been fighting; it was just kind of what usually ended up happening. We’d been drinking, but as usual, he was way ahead of me and beginning to slur.
Whenever he got too drunk, he had this moment where he’d be speaking to you normally and suddenly say something that to him made complete sense, but was just absolute gibberish. Unfortunately, pointing out that you didn’t understand him usually set him off. That was always the moment my stomach would drop because it meant the timer had begun; it was only a matter of time before he completely forgot where he was. It was a clear warning sign that it was time to get him out of public immediately.
This particular night, we were alone at home after I picked him up from his favorite dive bar. It was his favorite because it was just down the street from home. You could typically find him there about four to six nights a week, drinking flat beer and shots of Wild Turkey, going broke playing the same dozen racist/sexist country songs on the jukebox.
He’d endeared himself to several of the other (also clearly alcohol-abusing) regulars there, one of whom once tried to drunkenly fondle me before wetting himself while my abuser laughed. Two others, women roughly 30 years his senior, he’d later cheat on me with in a threesome. Real stand-up bunch.
