Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

I say firmly, “This is private property. My property. I’ve
already asked you to leave, but you haven’t. So not only are
you harassing me and scaring me, you’re trespassing. And
considering our past relationship, your obsession with my
neighbor, and your history of stalkerish behavior with the
constant drive-bys—which I’m sure your boss could track
from your phone or the equipment in your squad car if he
needed to—it would look very bad for you in front of a jury if
I felt compelled to use this weapon.”
His eyes bulge. His face turns red. He sputters, “A-are you
th-threatening to shoot me?”
“I don’t know, Chris. Check to see if I’m glancing up and
to the right.”
After a moment of stunned silence, he says loudly, “You
bitch!”
That almost makes me smile. If nothing else, it makes me
feel better for going all Rambo on him. “Charming. Now get
off my porch before I put a hole in your chest big enough to
see daylight through.”
He clenches his fists. Steam billows from his ears. He
stands there shaking in rage until he spins on his heel and
stalks off, cursing.
I’ve never been much of a gun enthusiast before. I only
have the thing because my dad left it behind when he and my
mom moved. But right now, I’m feeling all sorts of Clint
Eastwood tough, and all it took was resting my hand on this
weapon.
This weapon that couldn’t blow a hole through anything,
human or otherwise, because it isn’t loaded.
As Chris peels off down the street in a cloud of smoke, I
stand in the open doorway, unsure if I want to laugh or cry.
I go to bed depressed.
When I wake up sometime later, it’s still dark. The room is
silent and still. For a moment, I’m disoriented, listening hard
into the darkness and wondering with a little flutter of panic
inside my chest what made me wake up.