Peter McFeely

Brady stumbled over a tree stump as he loped through the thickets of grass on the edge of the woods. He was not used to the terrain and he was unbalanced by the rifle which he carried. Holding the gun at arm’s length, he gripped the handle and barrel tightly, aware that the safety was on but still scared of accidentally discharging a bullet. “Joe, slow down,” came the cry from behind. Brady’s younger brother Michael weaved along the rabbit track, struggling to keep up with the longer stride of his sibling. His woolen hat falling over his eyes and sleeve jackets covering his fingers, Michael cut a somewhat comical figure.

“Hurry up,” Brady snapped, “you know we don’t have long.” He turned away from his brother and continued towards the clearing in the woods. The brothers emerged from the trees, panting and lightly sweating, despite the winter chill that nipped their lips. Looking back they could see smoke rising from the chimney of their home, a few hundred metres away. Brady sunk low, although he knew that they were hidden from the view of the farmhouse. “Come on let’s find something,” said Brady, pushing further into the trees. The pair walked in silence, their snow dampened shoes squelching on the decomposing leaves and twigs. After about five minutes Michael tugged at Brady’s jacket, excitedly exclaiming, “look Joe! How about that?” Brady followed the line of his brother’s pointed finger to see a discarded water canister. “Ugh,” grunted Brady, “there’s no point if it’s just lying there…” he trailed off. “Listen.” Michael cocked his ear like a puppy. “What? I don’t get it?” “Listen!” Brady barked, “birds!”

The tweet, tweet, tweet was easy to ignore, so constant was it that it seemed as part of the woods as the rustle of the last remaining leaves and creaking of branches caused by the onset of Winter. “Look, there!” Brady pointed at one of the sturdiest branches of an oak tree about twenty yards away. A sparrow’s nest rested against the bough, while two birds were perched farther down the branch. Brady loosened his fearful grip on the rifle and lay down on the damp floor. Michael crouched beside him, pulling his hat back from his eyes. Brady balanced the barrel of the rifle on a log, as he had seen done by hunters on TV. Pressing his eye against the scope, he brought the sparrows into view. Brady forgot the cold mid-American wind and the wet in which he lay, as sweat droplets ran down his jaw and dripped off his chin. Michael held his breath. Brady squeezed the trigger and dropped the recoiling rifle as a loud crack shattered the serenity of nature’s surroundings. The brothers looked in each other’s eyes, shocked by the noise, until the ringing in their ears was replaced by a strangled screeching rather than a monotonous tweet. Brady looked towards the branch. The birds were gone. “I think I hit one!” he shouted, surprised yet with an air of arrogance. “Do you think it’s OK?” asked Michael, before feigning his concern for machismo in front of his older brother, quickly saying “can I try?” Brady shrugged him off as he reached for the rifle. “No,” he said defiantly, “it’s still my turn.” He repositioned himself, searching through the scope for a target, but he could not find any birds. The first gunshot had sent them into flight. His gaze eventually settled on the unmoved sparrow’s nest. With eager anticipation, Brady squeezed the trigger again and again.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

The sound of gunfire was replaced by reverberations of a leather belt, scoring Brady’s backside. He lay across his father’s knee, flinching every time he heard the belt slice through the air toward his buttocks. Each time the belt made contact he bit his lip so hard that he drew blood. It fell from his mouth and pooled on the floor with the tears which ran freely down his cheeks. He could also feel tears dropping on his back, his father weeping each time he administered a blow. Neither made a sound. The sobbing that filled the room came from Michael, who sat in the corner, hugging his knees to his chin, forced to watch as punishment for his part in the irresponsible theft and discharge of the gun their parent’s kept in their isolated farmhouse for protection. He squeezed his eyes tight as the belt swooped down once more.

Brady sat bolt upright. The bedsheets fell around his waist as sweat dripped from every pore of his body. He looked around the hotel room, trying to establish where he was, disorientated by the sudden end to his sleep. The nightmares came often. Brady had not had a good night’s sleep in the last ten months, with two sequences acting as the chief tormentors. The event’s which surrounded stealing his father’s gun was one of them.