Ch.1) Touching Feeling: /k/ edition

The first time I really noticed how I didn’t see the world in the same way as everyone else was when a police officer visited our school. It was a standard elementary school affair, the most visible public servant, the hero of many a growing boy, wearing a shiny brass badge and his navy blue uniform vested with almost tangible authority would come by and teach the younger generation about the importance of obeying the law. It was a day many of the children vowed to remember, and a day many forgot. I never did.

I may have forgotten his name, his years on the force, but I still remember his partner. A silent one dressed in a conservative grey blouse with the same brass badge and navy blue skirt, a policewoman’s hat prim and properly seated on her black hair. Maybe what first attracted my attention to her was her ample bosom, two mounds on her chest that could awaken that animal urge in even a prepubescent. Yet, her features were chiseled into stoicism, as if the word “duty” had a face. As the policeman began wrapping up his speech, answering a question or two from his child audience, she watched as if to scan her horizons like an eternally vigilant guardian. Her hands clad in white gloves clasped behind her back, her eyes slowly but steadily searching, she was a beauty I had never seen before in my short life. I raised my hand, and the officer asked what my question was.

“Is that lady over there your partner?”

Immediately my classmates began to whisper, a few chuckled. I turned to point to her, but she was gone. The teachers looked worried as did the officer when he turned to look behind his back and then returned to face me. He came alone, he said. His partner was back at the station, doing some paperwork, he said. As he quickly went on to the next question, another boy asking if he ever shot anyone, I felt a strange chill go down my spine. I turned back to the officer and saw the lady again, this time behind him. And this time, her eyes didn’t move. She only stared at me, never moving, never blinking. As the officer said his goodbyes and left the classroom only then did she start to move. She walked step by step with the policeman, a perfect cadence. But her eyes never left mine.

I never forgot that day. It was the start of it all.

From then on, I began to notice how people didn’t always count the same number of other people that I did. I was only six years old when I locked eyes with that policewoman. I was seven when I realized what she was. On rare occasions I would see another woman just like her, a twin sister almost, following in the same lock step as her own police officer. On one occasion, I must have been staring quite hard because a police officer, white moustache proudly set on his wrinkled face, came up to me and kneeled down to my eye level.

“Son, you are a little too young to be interested in guns, aren’t you? Its okay, I was a healthy young boy too, but remember to always tell an adult if you find a gun. They aren’t toys.”

I remember wondering what on earth he was talking about, but it finally drew on me when his female partner strode up, leaned on him and began shaking her head in agreement with his words. Unaware of the presence behind him, he suddenly stood up, wished me a good day, and walked away. My parents, who had only been a few feet away in line at the counter of the fast food joint we were in, came up to me and gingerly asked why the police man was talking to me. I thought about it, and I guess I was precocious enough to realize how little sense it made to tell the truth. I don’t remember what I told them, or the reaction they had. I just remembered how that old man’s gun looked at me as she walked away with the faintest grin.

Since then I did my best to pretend not to see them. I tried on a few occasions to talk with them, to see what they had to say, but I never really had a chance to actually have a conversation. The police officers were always diligent as watchdogs, and the owners of the others I met were quick to catch me before I could “shoot myself”. It was a troublesome time and I got in trouble with my parents quite quickly. In true childish fashion I decided that guns were too much of a pain to deal with and I would figure them out when I was older. They never seemed much to talk to me for some strange reason, and so if they had nothing to say then neither did I.

Years passed, and I would have forgotten all about my curious sense of sight if I hadn’t lived in the city for so long. It was difficult to say the least, that during my teenage years I had to force my wandering eye from looking up and down on those beauties in the force or else get some very tense questions from their partners about why I was so interested in his pistol. Still, I was a young man and in the inventiveness of a desperate teen I learned an easy way to score jack-off material in a clandestine method only I could use. I began to buy magazines about guns, save pictures of guns on my computer. It was easy enough to explain away as a teen, as long as my pants were kept at waist level. Sadly, not every issue had a pinup model labeled as “AK-74” or “Browning Hi Power”. It was almost rare to find them, but when they did I bought that magazine as fast as my feet and money could fly. It seemed that not every gun was a woman, but every one that was was quite the sex symbol.

My habits did teach me a few things about guns, almost unwillingly. Once I was spent I would wonder how the actual gun looked, the gun that I had just used to relieve myself. As my hormones raged, I learned a few things along the way. How to field strip a few, because what guy didn’t practice to undo a bra? How to clean them, how to reassemble them, everything I learned was due to thinking with the wrong head.

 And yet, I never actually thought of owning one.

Yet, after a while I had to face certain facts of life. The first was what I wanted to do after high school. As I matured, I began to put away those old, maybe a little too sticky, magazines and focus on my future education. The second was where I wanted to go. I guess that despite my best efforts, my ability to see a woman in a firearm had alienated me from others. In a way, I guess I was glad; city life had its glimmer, but not everything that does is golden. I was tired of the stares of others, different stares than those I gave to those beings of wood, plastic, and steel. My grandfather, a man I only rarely met due to the distance away we lived from him, had passed away and his farmland left unattended. To call it a farm was a bit of an overstatement; he hadn’t grown any produce or raised any livestock since before I was born. But there it was, abandoned and overgrown about an hour’s drive from the nearest city which just so happened to have a university with a decent department in the area of my major. So I worked out this deal with my family: I would go to study agricultural engineering and live on Grandpa’s old farm. My extended family was delighted since none of my uncles, aunts, or cousins wanted to deal with the upkeep on the farm but no one had the heart to sell it off. So off I went, with the well-wishes of my parents. My cousins had come by the farm with me for a bit, to help me with the initial remodeling of the house. The whole family had chipped in with a used truck for me to haul my daily needs in from town and with a good word for part-time work under a family friend. They told me that this wasn’t a permanent change though. After all, they still thought about making a profit once I left it alone. I figured they were afraid of Grandpa’s ghost coming back to haunt them if they had sold it immediately, but if I were to live there for a bit and then leave, maybe my presence would have sent him away in peace. I think it’s silly, but this comes from the man who sees women in guns, so perhaps I have no room to complain.

So I settled in nicely in that old two story house. Kitchen was bare-bones except for a refrigerator, a few pots and pans, and a used stove from my uncle’s last kitchen remodel. I would need to stock it up a tad more for bachelor living, but I figured it would do for now. There were multiple rooms, all for the most part bare. A few odds and ends that the old man couldn’t throw away, nothing that I had the heart to toss either. A bit sentimental of me, but I left his bedroom as is except for my computer. He might have been something of a Luddite, but I’m not willing to go that far in my search for peace.

Then I introduced myself to the neighbors, although it took me a good deal of walking to find them. Grandpa’s farm or I guess my farm now isn’t that big but is surrounded by a decent bit of dense woodlands. I didn’t get lost, although I might have strayed just a tad off that unkempt animal trail my family called a road. The first two houses had people who were polite but distant when I spoke to them; apparently they don’t get much in the way of visitors or salesmen. They made the same small talk you’d expect, “oh I’m so sorry for your loss, please let us know if you need anything” with eyes that begged for me to never take them up on their generous offer. The next house was much different.

It was about 5pm, Saturday when I walked up to the door of the last neighbor I planned on seeing. I had been walking for a while on a road that was being reclaimed by the underbrush, the noise of the breeze through the woods keeping me a bit on edge. I had grabbed a long, stout stick during my walk pretending to believe that I only wanted it for a hiking stick and not for the slim comfort it provided. The path led out of the trees and a small house protruded in the distance. I tossed the stick aside and memorized where I had left it before quickening my pace up to the door. I wanted to get this over and done with, so in almost record timing I was at the porch, knocking on the wooden door.

I heard silence at first, waiting there, then a small clatter and big, pounding footsteps making their way towards me. I did have time to be nervous, so I suffered the few seconds it took before the footsteps reached their loudest and the door opened just a crack. There was a man, unkempt beard and thick, gray eyebrows on his weathered face peering at me through that slight crack. I was taken aback by the distrust and hostility in his glare; I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to the draw.

“Who the fuck are you and why are you looking for me?”

After a second I closed my mouth. The door had opened just a bit more; before all I could see was his face but now I could see a bit more of the man. Grungy wife-beater and stained navy-blue sweats. More important than his clothes was his posture, left hip facing towards the door, right hand hidden as though reaching behind his back. What that pose meant was perfectly clear, so my mouth went into overdrive as I stammered back.

“Hey, my name’s Anon and I’m your new neighbor. My grandpa used to own that farm in the woods around there.” I pointed in the general direction of my house. “Anyways, I came by just to say hello and let you know I’m living there in case you see me around.”

He relaxed a tad, hostility replaced with curiosity. The door swung open a bit more and I saw someone else behind him. A swarthy, Asian woman appeared behind him, the top of her head just barely reaching his shoulder. She had a round, pretty face with a smile just a tad too wide for my taste. What caught my attention besides the insanely short mini-skirt and tank-top you’d expect to see on a bar girl in Thailand was her massive breasts, H cups if I had to guess. It was almost unreal and I half expected this Filipino girl to fall over trying to lean forward from behind her man. I caught myself and focused back on my neighbor who had followed my gaze. He looked almost embarrassed as he swung open the door fully.

“Shit, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Thought you were one of… well it doesn’t matter. Let me put this back real quick.” He let his right hand drop and there was a black 1911 with an almost comically oversized magazine. Walking over past where I could see, I heard him open and close a drawer. He walked back, sans girl, and we spoke briefly. Apparently he had been something of a friend to grandpa, nothing super close but at least shared a few drinks and stories with him more than once a year. After a bit of small-talk and a free beer, he let me go. As I was walking back down the steps from his patio, he called me back.


“Hey, word to the wise. If you don’t have one you better get yourself a gun. Animals and shit can wander around here. Hogs, feral dogs, and a few years ago I had some crackhead tweeker try to take shit from my garage.”

“Well, I’ll be either in the city or at home most of the time. I don’t really plan on camping around or anything and I don’t have anything worthwhile to steal.”

“Look, just get yourself something like a truck gun. Something in case shit hits the fan. I’d give you one, but the only extra I got laying around is some rusted out piece of shit I found in a yard sale.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about…”

“Hold up, where did I put it? I think it should be… Come on in and I’ll show you.” He interrupted me and was gone in a flash, almost waddling away with his pot belly barely visible underneath his shirt. He disappeared back around where had put away his 1911 and I heard rummaging and papers rustling around. It was a bit awkward standing around, but as I was contemplating just saying goodbye I heard his voice again. “Oi, I said come in, don’t just stand there!”

Well, I doubted that I could outrun his 1911’s bullet if he really meant me harm. And in all honesty, he didn’t seem like too bad of a guy. So I went inside his house. I figured it was small enough where I wouldn’t have to worry about some rape dungeon. I walked in, gingerly avoiding the random spots of controlled chaos and empty takeout boxes that littered the floor. Inside on my left was a bit of the stereotypical bachelor affair: old, well-used recliner in front of a bargain bin TV, a small TV dinner tray table on the right side of the recliner, and a few dated pin-up posters with blonde bimbos. Further down there seemed to be a billiards table; I thought maybe it’d be worth it to be on his good side if I could maybe get a standing invite to play.

I continued on towards the sound of the rustling man and saw that well-endowed asian girl sitting on the kitchen counter-top. She met my glance with that same, almost mockingly wide smile as she kept her hands down towards her inner thighs, her arms pushing out her breasts as if to invite me to spend hundreds of dollars on some cheap whisky, kicking her legs ever so innocently. I trained my glance away back towards my neighbor, trying to not look suspicious. He was still rummaging through old boxes and junk mail, cursing every now and then.

“I saw it ten fucking times when I wasn’t looking for it…”

I didn’t want to stop the man from looking; I was pretty sure he had forgotten about trying to push the gun on me and was now looking for the sake of his pride. I meandered around, doing my best not to look at the 1911 with the massive magazine. Of course, I failed. Oddly enough, she wasn’t looking at me anymore. Instead, she had something of a lovey-dovey, loose smile as she admired the fat man working himself into a lather. Without even a glance in my direction, she delicately pointed towards a corner back near his recliner, and my gaze followed. In the corner was a seated figure, a thin girl with her head bowed and her long, dirty blonde hair covering her face. It looked like she was wearing a white shirt and blue daisy dukes that had long since turned to rags, raggedy boots that were barely worth being thrown away in a dignified manner. She was a lithe figure, if she were to stand she’d be a decent bit taller than the 1911 that was behind me but a good deal more slender in the chest. Not to say she was flat, she definitely had some perk to her breasts, but nowhere near as overwhelming and almost obscene as the 1911. And still, this was all conjecture as she stayed huddled in the corner.

I made my way towards her. When I was enough to stand over her, I called out to my neighbor.

“Hey, is it this one?”

I could hear him get up with a grunt and make his ways towards me. Stepping aside so he could find it, I kept my eyes fixed away from the girl in the corner. The voyeur in me was curious, but I could tell that the girl wanted to remain unseen. Sadly for her, he whooped in joy as he lifted up a revolver from a plain cardboard box.

“Fucking finally. Here we go.”

The first thing I thought was, ‘damn that thing is ugly’. It had the shape of one of those old spaghetti Western movie revolvers, a single action piece. But there was no way in hell I would be able to fan the hammer like Butch Cassidy on this gun. One side of the gun had been rusted to hell, like it was left in a small pool of water for a year. The other side, one with three fairly distinct screws, had some minor oxidation too but not on the same level. The grips used to be ivory but years of neglect left them more brown than white. Big chunks of the grips were broken off too, exposing the spring behind.

“Take a look at this shit kid.”

He handed me the pile of rust and I inspected it as best as an amateur could.

“So this old guy died and his kids left his stuff sit in the garage for a few years. Turns out that they had a roof leak and this thing got the worst of it. Standing water for a few years will do that. His daughter didn’t want to deal with it, so I bought it off her for about 40 bucks. Thought about refinishing it, but can’t be assed to.”

I took a look at the rear of the cylinder and found it empty. Trying to pop it out was impossible, not until the rust could be removed.  I saw a bit of movement from the corner of my eye; I could tell she was looking at me through my peripheral vision but I didn’t dare look back at her.

“It has a good bore at least. Seems the old man tried to preserve it despite the dumb bitch being retarded. If you want it, I’ll give it to you.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly…”

I had looked up from my inspection and our eyes met, mine and hers. Her face was no longer covered by her long hair.

Looking at her, I wished it still was.

Her entire right side of her body was horrifically scarred. Almost like a chemical burn, her skin twisted and contorted with diseased looking bumps. Darkened flesh made nasty webs down her entire body, emanating from her right underarm. Her left side had minor scarring as well, but nothing so painful to see as her other side. However, the worst were her eyes. Her left eye, pure blue as the deepest sea, was bloodshot and open in defiance. Her right eye was glazed over in a ghastly white, fixed open from the scarring. It was a blessing in a way; I was so taken aback that I didn’t make a noise as I mechanically turned my gaze from her back to my neighbor.

He looked quizzically at me, but decided to be polite it seemed. Ignoring my odd display, he continued speaking, “Yeah, so you going to take it?”

“Look, I’m grateful but I don’t even know how to start fixing her, it. I mean it.”

He tossed me a sideways glance, eyebrow raised in like that one famous pro-wrestler turned actor. With a sigh, he had casually thrown the revolver back to its corner like a Frisbee. In the corner of my eyes I saw her unconsciously jerk at the rough treatment and I winced at her further pain.

“Well, fuck it. If no one wants it…” I heard a pained chuckle, abrupt like broken glass, come from the corner. “Why did I even buy this garbage anyway?” The few chuckles broke into a low, sustained sigh, the little life deflating in the woman who had once been a beauty queen.

I told myself not to do it. ‘Don’t listen’. ‘You have no idea how to restore her anyways’. ‘Someone else will take care of it’. ‘Even if no one else did, it’ll be fine’. ‘Stop listening to her’. But as her sigh turned into sobs wrenched out from her heart, I could feel my resolve breaking with it.

“Well, forget about it Anon. Get yourself a decent, cheap Hipoint and you’ll be set. I’ll just crush this one and smelt it out.”

And with that, unbidden it seems, she finally spoke out.

“…not like this…”

I turned to look her in the eyes and met hers pleading with me. The horrific disfigurement painted on top of the absolute despair of a girl’s begging face, the pale white canker sores on cracked, full lips supplicating whatever god a firearm could worship for another chance at life, her tight yet plump body full of leprosy and cancer on all fours reaching out for salvation. I met those eyes.

And I broke.

“Don’t!” He turned back to me, irritation plain on his face. But I continued. “I’ll take her. I’ll figure something out, but I’ll take her.”

He snorted, and went to pick up the revolver he had carelessly tossed aside. Stooping down with a grunt, probably fuelled by a very poor diet and exercise routine, he brought the maltreated firearm into my hands.

“Say that sooner next time. Anyway, elbow grease is your best friend. Elbow grease and some auto trans fluids. That and oil. You’ll figure it out if you google it or something.”

With the abused gun in my hands and possession, I kept my eyes away from the figure in the corner. She had gone back to her original pose, head down and hair over her face crouching as if to hide away from a hostile world.

“So, what kind of gun is this?” He stared at me like I was stupid, so clarified. “Make and model I mean.”

“It’s shit right now. But, it used to be a Ruger Vaquero. The dead guy was into cowboy stuff from what I saw. Anyways, glad you took it off my hands. Now I can call me and your grandpa even on my tab.”

I left his house in his good graces and with a silent ghost at my back, which now brings me to the present. I have no idea what to do, or how to do it, but I’ll find a way to save her.

And hopefully, I won’t save just her body.