A Finger On A Trigger Of A Gun

The coldness spread through out Rog until it felt like a fissure in the ice when he pressed his foot down on the break. For one of those familiar spilt seconds that takes eons to live through, his rational mind tried to decide what to do. He had never had a gun stuck in his head before. In fact, he had never had a gun pointed at him - ever. A fine solider he was going to make. Be cool, he told himself.

"Don't brake, keep driving," the voice of his assailant said behind his ears. He looked again into the rear-view mirror. The gun was pushed harder into his head to an almost painful point, "Eyes on the road."

But the voice had done something unexpected to Rog. It had calmed and soothed him much more than he assumed it was meant too. The fact registered into his mind. His assailant was a "she." From what he had seen, she was not a large "she," and a rather young one at that.

"Fine. Where do you want to go?" he asked in a calm voice that reflected the relief in his mood. Why just the idea of an erratic female in this backseat, finger on a trigger of a gun should be enough to make him fear for his life. He was after all the only male in the family of very strong women. He knew the true force of their roar and it had little to do with volume. There ]fore at this moment, he knew better than to antagonize the she-creature with the long black hair and dark eyes. In fact, as he inhaled with his nose, he suspected she was not much in favor of clean hygiene.

"I don't know, just drive." So, he did and headed the long way to his mother's house.

"Suit yourself," he said wondering what he really should do in this case. He did not know her after all, and though he got a sense that she was merely desperate and not dangerous, he could not be too sure.

"What do you want?" he asked bluntly.

He heard the sigh, "What we all want. Something warm and secure, not the ice picks that pin you to the table."

Oh dear, Rog thought. Why me? Why did all the dark poetesses out there always manage to find him. What was it about him? And this time this circumstance seemed completely random. Who else but Rog would get a dirty, desperate, gun-totting poetry queen hijacking his Monday plans. But part of him was intrigued.

As he began to lose himself on auto pilot and contemplate the mystery behind him, he was unaware that his speed was ebbing. A sudden bang, pulled his attention completely. His head rang and he was sure he had been shot in the back of his head. Holly sh-t, he said to himself. Why do I always underestimate the crazy ones?

The suddenness of the loud sound and feel of the discharge had cause his foot to stomp on the brakes. Once again the car began to spin across the street. In the slow motion of this, he began to think new tires for the car might be a novel idea or perhaps it was not the tires at all but the little bit of rain they had gotten earlier. It had cause the road conditions to be slicker than normal since it had not rained in weeks.

He heard the screams coming from the back seat. He should be dead by now. How long could one live, thinking one's thoughts, before the brain realized it had a new friend named bullet in its domain?

Rog looked in the back seat. There was no blood, only as creaming she-creature who was curled up tightly in an almost fetal position. He had not been shot. Perhaps she had shot herself? But he saw noblood on her either and she was definitely breathing.

Slowly the car stopped its circles. Once again, Rog had managed to do a 360 without injury to the car or himself. He actually laughed and realized she had fired a warning shot out the window, a shot that was supposed to force him to drive faster. Now the gun lay on the back seat, just within his reach. The she-creature had paused in her wails, but had not moved. Carefully, Rog reached past her and picked up the gun.

At the same moment, the car, fine but angry over the interruption of zen driving, sputtered for a moment and died.