The way Serge held the pistol with both hands firmly gripping the handle in front of him and feet at shoulder’s length apart, it made Dodge’s heart thump in his chest. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips. Serge was walking him through proper gun handling procedure, but it was hard to pay attention. His biceps flexed ever so slightly as he pulled the trigger. The shot reverberated around the room, leaving Dodge speechless.

“Your turn,” Serge said, handing him the gun. Dodge reached for his hand and felt the warm skin transition into cold metal. The gun weighed heavy in his hands. It felt powerful. “Shoot it,” Serge said, sounding like a whisper through the earplugs. Dodge’s hands trembled as pointed the barrel at the target. He rubbed his finger on the trigger, trying to work up the courage to pull.

“I can’t,” Dodge confessed and dropped the gun. There was a bumbling feeling building up in his chest. He felt hot. “I have to go,” he said and left the gun range with his head down.

 

Like most men born and raised in the Midwest, Dodge’s childhood was steeped in religion and military propaganda. Taught that masturbation’s a sin and that homosexuality’s worse, he never quite understood what made him want to enlist. He never cared much about war and wasn’t really the violent type, but something about the recruiters always warmed him over. After he was denied entry due to asthma, he felt lost. His father was disappointed. He had no prospects. He finally was able to secure a security job at the local hospital and even started his training, but he blew it. He dropped the gun.

The scene haunted Dodge for several restless nights. The image of Serge’s hands pulling the trigger played over and over again in his imagination. He would wake up in a cold sweat with the image burned in his mind, the way his muscles tensed as he pulled until it popped in his hand. His hands, his arms, the gun, it all kept swelling in his mind until he couldn’t take it anymore. He went back to the gun range.

Too nervous to walk straight up to Serge, he made a beeline for the chairs that observed the shooting range. Sitting against the back wall, he watched Serge explain basic shooting tips, walking up and down the range, ensuring safety procedures, but he was most excited when Serge walked someone through a demonstration. He looked so strong and confident as he held the gun with perfect posture. His eyes smoldered with an unbridled intensity as he stared down the targets, hitting each shot right on the mark. Dodge didn’t even realize he’d been there for hours until Serge stepped out of the shooting range and walked up to him.

“Want to try it for yourself?” He asked with a grin. Dodge nearly began trembling as he looked up at the man.

“No. I don’t know.” Dodge laughed. “I’m just nervous. I don’t know why.”

“It’s okay to be nervous.” Serge nodded his head to the side, and Dodge began following him out onto the range. “It’s a powerful tool. It makes sense to be nervous. It’s a machine that demands respect. However, do not be afraid. You should never be afraid of your gun. You respect it and treat it well, it will do right by you.” Serge picked up a pistol off the shelf and thrust it into hands. “Ready?”

“Yes.” The words squeaked out like a tiny mouse, but Serge placed a firm hand on his shoulder and guided him to a booth.

“Aim like you’re ‘bout to shoot,” he said over Dodge’s shoulder, sending shivers down his spine. His heart pounded against his ribcage like it wanted free, but he picked up the gun. “Straighten them arms. You want ‘em nice and tight,” he said and nudged his elbows. He tapped against a few of Dodge’s fingers. “Adjust your grip. You don’t want it to pop back at ya.” Dodge adjusted his grip and Serge patted him again on the shoulder. “Alright, you’re good to go. When you’re ready, pull the trigger.”

Dodge rubbed his finger up and down the trigger, then pulled. The gun kicked back in his hand with a bang, and he let out a small shriek. He could hear Serge stifle a laugh, and heat rose to his cheeks. His body felt trembly. He was weak in the knees.

“I’ve got to go,” Dodge said and placed the gun back down on the counter. “Thanks for your help.” He nodded towards Serge without looking him in the eye and then left.

***

The next day, Dodge drove back to the gun range and sat outside in his car. He watched people come in and out, but left before he could work up the courage to walk in. He cruised through town until he passed a gun shop. It took less than fifteen minutes for him to pick out a cheap pistol and complete the purchase.

Back home, after the sun went down, he took the gun out of the case and examined it in the dim light that poured into the living room from the streetlights outside. It felt heavy, solid in his hands. He brought it back to his bedroom and posed in front of a full-length mirror. Standing just how Serge instructed, he felt powerful.

After work, before bed, he would spend his evenings posing in different military stances in the mirror. He dug up some old military magazines from his teenage days and began emulating the men in the photos. He admired how strong and capable they looked and tried to imagine himself as them as he cycled through positions.

He couldn’t explain why. It felt like he was chasing something, like he was yearning for something but could never reach it. He stood in the mirror with the gun to his side and stared at his body. He wasn’t angry, but he could feel tension and frustration building inside of him. He didn’t want to pose with the gun anymore, but he knew of nothing else that would even come close to feeling the same. He swung the gun around through the air, aiming at different objects in the room until he spun back around to the mirror and pointed the gun at his reflection.

Something clicked inside his head as he stared down the barrel through the reflection. He imagined Serge running his hands down his arm, nudging his elbows into proper position. He could almost hear him whisper, pull the trigger. He bit his lip. His heart pounded in his chest. This was the feeling he was chasing. He pulled the trigger.

The mirror shattered. The glass clattered to the floor. Dodge’s ears rang as he dropped the gun and collapsed into the bed. His skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. Gasping for breath, his mind reeled. He was so confused. He didn’t know where this desire was coming from. All he knew was that he wanted more.

He grabbed the gun off the floor. Pulling the trigger was fine, but what really caught his attention was the tip. Staring down the barrel made his chest flutter. He imagined Serge staring at him like he was a target sheet, everything else in the world melting away but Serge, his gun, and Dodge, his target.

He dragged the tip of the barrel up his shin, across his chest, over his lips. He pictured Serge pulling the trigger and then imagined the bullet entering his body. He tapped the barrel against his chest, his knee, his shoulder. Part of him wanted to put the gun down, but he had come too far. Sure, he couldn’t know exactly what it would be like for Serge to shoot him, but he could get close. He pointed the gun at the top of his foot and pulled the trigger.

***

It hurt, of course, but Dodge didn’t care. The adrenaline took over and electrified his body. He felt alive. He laid in bed for a while, just basking in the afterglow, but all the good parts slowly drifted away, leaving Dodge alone with nothing but a hole in his foot. He did his best to wipe away the blood and wrap an old t-shirt around the wound before calling a cab. He told the hospital it was an accident. Everyone believed him.

For a while, it was enough. At night he would hold the gun against his chest and picture Serge aiming his pistol, the look in his eyes, his grip on the handle. He imagined him pulling the trigger, remembering how the bullet felt as it bored through his foot.

Soon, however, the fantasy was drained of all its magic. It no longer filled his chest with tingly excitement. It now made him feel empty, lonely. Every time he held the gun, it just made him long for something more. He thought about shooting himself again, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t just the gunshot. He wanted Serge to pull the trigger.

He felt crazy, but he drove back to the gun range. Sitting in the parking lot, he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He knew there would be consequences, but he wanted this. He wanted this more than anything he’s wanted before. He placed the gun in his palm like it was communion, walked through the door with trembling legs, and presented it to Serge like an offering.

“Please,” Dodge pleaded with his eyes to the ground. “Please shoot me.” The building fell quiet as everybody turned to look. Serge stammered as he tried to think of a response. “Please just shoot me here.” He pointed to his shoulder and shoved the gun into Serge’s hands which he reluctantly accepted. “It won’t kill me or anything. It’s okay. I want you to do it.” His words were barely a whisper, his desperation taut across his face.

“I’m calling the police,” the receptionist announced, but Dodge didn’t care.

“Please. Just one time.” Dodge begged, but Serge shook his head.

“This… is not okay.” His mouth hung open. He had the gun, so he wasn’t scared, but what else could he say. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No.” Dodge moaned. A cry burst through his throat and squeaked past his lips. “No. It’s okay. I want it. I want you to shoot me.”

“No.”

“Shoot me!” He screamed, tears rolling down his cheeks that burned red with embarrassment. Everybody was staring. Some people had their hand over their mouths or their eyes buried in their palms. “Shoot me! Shoot me! Shoot me!” He screamed until his voice became a hoarse, haggard wail. Somebody else started crying and then, there was a loud bang.

He did it. Serge shot him. Dodge’s shoulder jerked backwards, and he fell into the floor. The room erupted into chaos, but adrenaline took over Dodge’s system. He could hear the sirens as police and ambulances arrived, their lights bathing the room in flashes of red and blue. Serge looked distraught, but a smile crept across Dodge’s face. He never felt more intimately connected to another person