I hated living with him: this short, greasy-blonde-haired, blue-eyed, torn-sweater-wearing, womanizing, power-hungry man-child. We rarely spoke. Neither of us stayed at our grungy rental house for more than a few minutes during the day.
The couch, yellowed and stained, offered no comfort. The company was hostile. Stale cigarette smoke clung to the walls and fogged the windows. The carpet was so hard and scratchy that we couldn’t even take our shoes off inside.
The truth is, I was afraid to stay long. When I was in my bedroom, I kept the door locked and a baseball bat next to my bed. When I was gone, I left nothing valuable behind. In that regard, it was a good thing I had little of value.
One day, the guy I lived with pulled out a pistol and started waving it around.
“You see this?” He wasn’t aiming it at me, but his finger was on the trigger. “This is a Glock.” He took his eyes off the gun, looked into mine, and slid his tongue across the front of his upper teeth. Then he jerked his upper body toward me, looking for a reaction, looking for fear.
I stood my ground. I hoped he couldn’t see my heart pounding through my shirt.
“IT’S A FUCKIN’ GLOCK! WOOOOO!” He forced a laugh and licked his teeth again. I backed toward the front door. He noticed right away.
“Where, the fuck, are you going, ass hole?” He said, now pointing the gun at me, finger on the trigger, hands steady, mind drunk with power.
I dove behind the couch, scraping my knees and hands on the carpet. He jumped onto the couch and stood on the backrest. I looked up and saw the barrell of the gun aimed directly at my head.
“What the fuck, man? Quit playing with that thing. You’re gonna hur–“
He yelled, “HAAAAAAAAAAAA!” but there wasn’t the slightest smile on his face. “The only ass hole I could possibly hurt here is you because you’re the only ass hole here,” he tilted his head back and howled, “FUCK HEEEEEAAAAAD!”
I jumped up and ran around a corner into the hallway. Every piece of glass in the house rattled when he jumped off the couch and slammed his feet onto the floor. Then silence.
I heard him take a deep breath in through his nose and a quick exhale from his mouth.
I wondered how I ended up living with such a psychopath.
He walked to the hallway, gun drawn. I ran past him to the kitchen and ducked behind the counter. He pistol-whipped the wall. There was a crumbling sound as he pulled his hand out of the hole he made.
A moment later, he leaned over the kitchen counter. I said, “knock it off, man! This isn’t funny,” and then sprinted back over behind the couch.
Then I had an epiphany. I could be freed of this whole mess, this tremendous fear. I stopped trying to flee and hide. I walked into the living room, laid face down on the floor, and said, “go ahead.”
He put the barrel of the Glock against my temple. I thought to myself, “this will either be over soon or I will still be alive.”
He never pulled the trigger. After a minute, he took the gun away from my head. He stopped pointing it at me.
Overcome with joy, I rolled onto my back and laughed so hard that my eyes welled up with tears. I wanted to befriend him, this man who did not kill me. He introduced me to a peace I had never known.
I embraced him with pure delight.