Tribulation [h.s]

27

Harry doesn't seem to like this. His eyes narrow, and he zones in on the blonde. "I just do. Now drop it."

I hate to say it, but Niall is right. They have no reason to trust me; Harry should have killed me a long time ago, but he didn't. Harry has no evidence, yet he's defending me. He refuses to kill me and trying to figure out why makes me dizzy.

Was it something I said? Something I did? I'm not sure.

Harry's lip curls, and then he nods his head in the direction of the living room before looking back at Niall. "Go sit and calm the fuck down."

Niall glowers at Harry before Candy treads over to him hesitantly and grabs his arm. "C'mon, Niall," she mumbles and tugs him along. "Let's go."

"Um-" I clear my throat when my voice breaks and try to shake off my apparent nerves from what just happened. "T-thank you. Thank you for defending me. You should sit down, though; I don't want your stitches to come undone."

He waits until Niall and Candy have disappeared into the living room before speaking. "Don't thank me, Rosaline. Just because I know you don't have what it takes to be a killer, that doesn't mean I trust you."

With the absurdity of his statement, all I can do is blink. "What?"

He ignores my thoughtless question. "Who taught you how to shoot a gun?"

"W-Why are you asking?"

"Well, you took my gun, and unless you're a lucky idiot, you have impeccable aim. You popped the SUV's front tire, and the car flipped, giving us time to make a getaway. So, I'll ask again. Who taught you how to shoot?"

"My father," I swallow, nodding nervously. "He served for years. He taught me before he died."

When I was younger, really young, around five or six, my father came back from his sixth tour. Around that time, he started having episodes of seizures, agonizing headaches, and blurred vision. For a moment, he even forgot who I was. After dozens of long, painful tests, the doctors discovered he had brain cancer. His sixth tour so happened to be his last tour. Into and out of remission, I watched him wither away for years until I was ten.

I was holding his hand when he stopped breathing.

Before he passed, there was a point where my father just accepted his death. I could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch, and see it in his kind gestures as he treated my mother and me like royalty.  He knew he was dying, and there was nothing that could stop it. So, on his last days, he took me out into a field and taught me the ins and out's of guns before showing me how to shoot. After taking my first shot, I remember crying. The kickback felt as if it shattered my small hands. My father held me, kissed my forehead, and told me that pain was temporary. He also said that I would have to protect mom from now on. With tears in my eyes and snot running from my nose, I nodded and promised him I'd always protect her.

I didn't keep that promise, and it kills me.

My father taught me the basics of how to use a gun. However, he's not the one who helped perfect my shot; my stepfather did that. But he's not a man I feel comfortable talking about. Just the mention of his existence can send me spiraling. So, I keep my answer short.

Harry nods and thankfully doesn't push on the subject. "So, you were trained by a vet, and your aim is fairly decent, no? You had a clear shot, Rosaline, so why didn't you shoot the man? Why go for the tires?"

"I-I didn't want to hurt him."

"Let me get this right... You didn't want to hurt a man who was trying to kill you?"