Danae shucked her jeans to the floor. Her finger traced the edges of the adhesive discs that covered the cross-hairs inked on her thigh. She picked at the edge of one. There would be no more radiation.
She thought to tear it away quickly, like her daddy would have yanked a bandage from her skinned knee. Cruel, but short-lived and in that, the mercy. Instead she pulled slowly. The sting was bright and she could taste it. Coppery, like pennies.
Danae was twelve when her daddy taught her to shoot. He built a range behind the barn and he instructed her on sight picture and trigger control. He also trained Danae how to pack a wound and treat for shock. “This ain’t no game, little honey,” he said. “You carry the power to take a life, you best know how to save one.”
Sunday, August 4, 2013
I felt welcomed along on this particular journey.