He picked himself up off of the ground, still clutching one ear. “God damn it.” He kicked the leaves, walking in circles and cursing my brother. “You dumb son of a bitch. You goddamn motherfucker. You almost fucking killed me, you stupid motherfucker.”

My brother stood rigid against the swaying trees. My father towered over him in his faded beige coveralls. His face was red. Spit flew from his mouth, accompanying every syllable of each expletive. As the fear that my father had been shot subsided, a new terror gripped me. I shrunk back into the deer stand.

“Give me that gun you dumb son of a bitch.” He grabbed the rifle out of my brother’s trembling hands and towered over him. “You almost fucking killed me. I can’t hear shit out of my ear. Thanks. Thanks you little fuck. Thank you for making me fucking deaf.”

My father walked back to the house, clutching his ear and cussing. I removed the slug from the chamber of my shotgun, checking twice to make sure it was empty. With the breech open, I descended the ladder to my sobbing brother. I saw my chances at killing my first deer slip away.

“Thanks for ruining it for me. See if dad ever lets us go hunting again.” I walked back to the house and left him, crying in the woods.

After a few hours my father started to cool down. He wasn’t deaf. His hearing came back eventually. I had been right, though. It was a long time before he allowed us to resume hunting.

 

 

Guns have been present in my life for a long time. My father always kept multiple, some as heirlooms, others for hunting, others still to sit in the attic. When my brother’s and my interest