Slowly, I turned the knob and pulled the door open. Nothing. He was gone. Something must have scared him away or maybe he just gave up . I stepped back into my small bedroom and carefully closed the door behind myself. “Where did he go?” I said out loud to myself. Again, I stood still and listened. The noise of the television echoed in the hallway. The familiar sound of the afternoon news almost made me question what I had just experienced. The thought of becoming careless or delusional snapped me back to reality. That...person...thing...or whatever it is, is still in the house somewhere .
I need a plan , I thought as I scanned the room for useful items. It appeared that I had the best weapon in the room already in my hand. I knew my dad had a handgun in his bedroom, which was just one room over from mine. If I were going to take all of the ammo with me, I would need a way to carry it other than in my hands. I quickly walked over to where I had thrown by dark red book bag and emptied the contents. I neatly stacked all of my textbooks, notebooks, and binders on the chair where my bag had sat. I put my arms through the shoulder straps of the bag and picked my sword up off of the floor. I paused for a moment, just to feel the odd, lightweight of the backpack. I had never worn it without forty pounds of knowledge inside it.
Again I walked over to the door and stood staring at the knob for a few seconds, just trying to imagine myself flawlessly executing the maneuver to get into my parents’ room. I took a deep breath and quickly opened the door.
I glanced down the hallway, to see the television. The screen was black again and my attacker was nowhere to be seen. As I stared into the darkness of the front room, I realized that I was blindly grasping for the knob of my parents’ door when the door was already open. Trying not to feel stupid, I carefully backed into the room and shut the door. Next came the task of trying to figure out where he kept the handgun and the ammo.
I tried to search as quietly as possible, but every little clank and clatter I made sounded like it could be heard from outside of the house. At last I found it. Strangely, the handgun was on my mother’s side of the bed, inside of an old shoebox. The ammo was not well hidden. It sat in almost plain view on the shelf in the closet. The .40 caliber Glock 23 came with three magazines, but only one of them was loaded. I had found one box of fifty cartridges and ten were missing, no doubt inside of the loaded magazine. It had been a few months since I had gone shooting with my dad at the range, but I still remembered how to shoot. I was a decent shot, but my dad could always out-shoot me without trying. After I loaded the two empty magazines, I placed the half-empty box into my book bag.
As I zipped up the bag, I thought, Could I really shoot that guy? I had shot at paper targets and tried to imagine that it was someone trying to attack me, but there are some real differences. The practice target has no eyes, it does not bleed, it does not run away, it does not feel anything, and most of all it does not die. I would only shoot him if I had to.
I usually carried a pocketknife with me, just in case. I pulled out my knife and cut a small slit in the top of my book bag and cut another on the bottom. I picked my sword up off the bed and slid it into the top hole and guided it through the bottom hole. Again I put my bag on my shoulders. I wanted to get back into my room to gather some other things. I would need a change of clothes. The rain was coming down outside and if I got soaked I would need to change. Using a maneuver similar to the way I had gotten into my parent’s room, I managed to get back into my own room. I packed two t-shirts, one pair of jeans, four pairs of socks, and two pairs of boxers. This was about all I could fit into my bag
I need a plan , I thought as I scanned the room for useful items. It appeared that I had the best weapon in the room already in my hand. I knew my dad had a handgun in his bedroom, which was just one room over from mine. If I were going to take all of the ammo with me, I would need a way to carry it other than in my hands. I quickly walked over to where I had thrown by dark red book bag and emptied the contents. I neatly stacked all of my textbooks, notebooks, and binders on the chair where my bag had sat. I put my arms through the shoulder straps of the bag and picked my sword up off of the floor. I paused for a moment, just to feel the odd, lightweight of the backpack. I had never worn it without forty pounds of knowledge inside it.
Again I walked over to the door and stood staring at the knob for a few seconds, just trying to imagine myself flawlessly executing the maneuver to get into my parents’ room. I took a deep breath and quickly opened the door.
I glanced down the hallway, to see the television. The screen was black again and my attacker was nowhere to be seen. As I stared into the darkness of the front room, I realized that I was blindly grasping for the knob of my parents’ door when the door was already open. Trying not to feel stupid, I carefully backed into the room and shut the door. Next came the task of trying to figure out where he kept the handgun and the ammo.
I tried to search as quietly as possible, but every little clank and clatter I made sounded like it could be heard from outside of the house. At last I found it. Strangely, the handgun was on my mother’s side of the bed, inside of an old shoebox. The ammo was not well hidden. It sat in almost plain view on the shelf in the closet. The .40 caliber Glock 23 came with three magazines, but only one of them was loaded. I had found one box of fifty cartridges and ten were missing, no doubt inside of the loaded magazine. It had been a few months since I had gone shooting with my dad at the range, but I still remembered how to shoot. I was a decent shot, but my dad could always out-shoot me without trying. After I loaded the two empty magazines, I placed the half-empty box into my book bag.
As I zipped up the bag, I thought, Could I really shoot that guy? I had shot at paper targets and tried to imagine that it was someone trying to attack me, but there are some real differences. The practice target has no eyes, it does not bleed, it does not run away, it does not feel anything, and most of all it does not die. I would only shoot him if I had to.
I usually carried a pocketknife with me, just in case. I pulled out my knife and cut a small slit in the top of my book bag and cut another on the bottom. I picked my sword up off the bed and slid it into the top hole and guided it through the bottom hole. Again I put my bag on my shoulders. I wanted to get back into my room to gather some other things. I would need a change of clothes. The rain was coming down outside and if I got soaked I would need to change. Using a maneuver similar to the way I had gotten into my parent’s room, I managed to get back into my own room. I packed two t-shirts, one pair of jeans, four pairs of socks, and two pairs of boxers. This was about all I could fit into my bag
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