I reassured myself that I had nothing to worry about. I couldn’t even hit a can, what were the chances I could hit a moving bird? I closed my eyes, held my breath and took my shot. I heard Sam cheer and felt Dad’s arms embrace me. “Well done son! On your first shot as well” he bellowed. Dad patted me on the back and for the first time I felt like he was proud of me; but it didn’t make up for the knot that my intestines were tying themselves into as I carried the carcass of the pheasant back to the car. Mum cooked the bird for dinner that night and as she laid the magnificent feast on the table in front of me I couldn’t bring myself to look it. Dad carved the bird and laid three slices of meat on my plate. I picked at the vegetables but did not touch the meat until Dad asked me why I was being so fussy with my food. I wasn’t ready for the argument just then so I ate my meat quietly and made myself sick that night after dinner. My throat burned and my mouth tasted foul as I climbed into bed that night and tried to relax. I saw the pheasant trying to fly; its snapped wings were desperately trying to lift its body off the ground. I heard its screech as the bullet sliced through its feathers. I tried to run to it but my legs failed to propel me forward. I couldn’t move. I woke in a cold sweat.
I don’t like my birthday.
12