A Bullet Or Two

Chapter 1.3

**Warning**: Sexual and violent content. References to abuse. 

If you or someone you know has experienced abuse, please seek support from trusted friends and relatives as well as professional services. You are not alone and you are not at fault.

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Delilah found herself present in an endless obstacle course. Tools were scattered across the concrete floor, smothered in layers of gunpowder and metal flakes. Unopened boxes lodged themselves beneath worktops. Those were not much better, covered in unfinished gun parts and bullets. Only one lantern was needed to light the place, attached to the wall a few feet away. She had relied on the gunsmith in his drunken state to remember exactly where things were dumped on the floor to save her from an unpleasant injury or a trip in her low-heeled boots. The ale in her system only complicated it more. Each step she took was like balancing on a cliff's edge. One wrong move and she would fall. Plummet to the rocks beneath and shatter all two hundred and six bones in her body. Daryll shoved the few finished guns he had on his small worktop to the back of the room straight to the floor, eager to position Delilah in their place. He was just as careless with his smithery as he was with his marriage.

His touch was as abhorrent as his smell, making her bowels twist. Rough hands pinned against her waist as he gnawed at her neck, moving a hand to pull the fabric further down her chest. Delilah cried out in fake, soft moans.

She found herself losing balance, the drunkard pushed his weight more and more onto her. Her unsteady hands staggered for a secure place to anchor herself. He perched on her legs, parting them to get closer. Her stomach lurched, anxiety and disgust playing on her thoughts, the haze of the alcohol faded. She needed more.

It was always her in these positions. Never any of the others. Baron always made her visit horrid towns for horrid jobs. Never hired any other girls to seduce his associates. Never visited them himself for a quick telling-off. Always her. Only her. The drunk stumbled into her again, mumbling a brief apology before moving to feast on her shoulder.

She would refuse next time. Not another job like this. Not another where she was at the mercy of a man. Not another like Mitsby...Daryll bit down harder; she clenched her fists, blood rising to her skin. Not again.

Maybe next time she would let Jonnie say his piece. Her step-father seemed to listen to him.

Another stumble woke her out of her thoughts. This was taking too long.

"Are you okay?" She forced her eyes to widen as she held his head. Bile slithered up her throat as a few mumbles and nods told her the bastard was not. Ale and lust were clouding his mind. Ale made their minds delirious. Uncomprehending of right or wrong. Ale made men into monsters. But it was also ale that had managed to get her this far through the job.

She dropped her hands back to the table, fighting the urge to shove Daryll from her. Only, a sudden cold graze against her fingers took her by surprise. A cool cylinder formed beneath her touch. Delilah froze entirely.

---

"How long did you take to make this?" Delilah twisted the pistol, examining each and every part of it, stilling her hands as much as she could, though her tremors increased the more as it remained in them. Never had she been more grateful for a weapon appearing. The silver barrel was undamaged; perfectly rounded with no scratches or marks. It rested easily atop the rounded, wooden handle and fit comfortably in her hand, smooth and recently varnished. It was new.

"A few days at most." He grumbled.

"Only a few days!"

"It's a simple cap lock."

"I'm impressed." Delilah had spent many occasions honeying the ears of insecure men, even more so that of drunken scumbags. A year away from business had not tainted her skill and this time went as those others had. The fidgeting mass of bones and fat stopped squirming in his frustration. His snarl grew lazy and loosened into a crooked grin. She guessed his next moves before he had thought it. How he would step forward and gush his years of knowledge, demonstrate how to load the gun as if she didn't already know, and flatter her with compliments. Then finally, return to his position close to her and try to part her legs again. Yet, this time, after a heavy breath from her, they parted for him.

As he stepped between her legs, large hands latched to her waist, he tugged her skirts up. Pushed the fabric across her thighs and pulled her closer. Her pulse was hammering. Cold trailed where his hands brushed. The bile in her throat piled up. She yearned for the numbness her drinks had given her.

Daryll was no longer Daryll. Instead, he was the old man from Turnsdale, the pimpled accountant from Westward, and the corpse from Mitsby violating her over and over again.

Her grip tightened around the handle as her breathing laboured. Her finger pulled tight against the trigger and her ears rang.

Two breaths escaped her lips. A scream broke from Daryll. Their ears rang heavy from the shot.

"Do not touch me again."

---

Opposite the worktop where she was sat, the door slammed open, and Jonnie rampaged in all before Delilah had completely registered what she had done.

Her pulse was drumming in her ears. Not again, please not again. She hesitated to look down. Fearing what she had done. Not again, she could not bear to see it again, could not prepare to see what lay on the floor before her.

The pistol slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor next to Daryll, who lay clutching his thigh, gritting, and whaling at the pain. Red like the colour of her skirt pooled beneath him and Delilah's pulse returned to a steady pace. He lived.

Jonnie visibly relaxed across the room, clearly disturbed by the sudden blast. He nodded at her once, checking she was okay but then moved to collect the guns into a sack. Shaking, Delilah composed herself before continuing. Kneeling beside the fetal form cowering on the ground, she picked up the gun and began instructing Daryll on his future business with Baron. How slacking on production would not be tolerated and how whimpering on the floor like a puppy would do him no good. She forced as much venom into her frightened voice, curled a smile on her terrified face, and relaxed her limbs until cruelty seemed a natural gesture.

Delilah glanced at Jonnie one more time, his attention was fixed solely on surviving the obstacle course of the shop. Beneath her, Daryll continued bleeding, seething. Sweat gleamed across his balding head. She pressed the gun to his chest a final time.

"Baron does not take kindly to having his weapons kept from him, Daryll. Do not do it again."