How It Happened
Danny fell asleep. His hunting rifle was propped up against a tree. He left the safety off. You never leave the safety off. Danny dozed on the ground, leaning against the tree, and then he shifted and knocked over the gun. Went off as it fell. He’s lucky he ain’t dead.
How It Happened, I Swear
Everyone had been drinking. We’d built a fire and threw our cigarette butts between the burning logs as we talked. It was whiskey, or maybe moonshine. Probably a bit of both. Larry knows how to make moonshine—can get the proof around 130 on a good batch. He’d left his rifle against a tree several feet away, barrel pointed at the ground, safety on. Ed, Danny, and I had done the same. At least, I thought we did. All four guns, safety on, at a distance, that’s how it was supposed to be. But that whiskey. That moonshine. I didn’t see it happen. Everyone swore their safeties were on. Danny’s must not have been. That’s the only way.
How It Actually Happened
I rose from some logs and dry brush, a bit of lighter fluid and a fistful of matches. I rose fast and hot. They threw their cigarette butts to me, like a bone to a dog, and I swallowed them quickly. The ashes and embers of those cigs were pathetic, beneath me and my flames. I wanted all trace of them gone. The four men sat around me, and I took pleasure when the wind pushed my smoke into their eyes, burning them just a little. The bearded one eventually wandered off, rubbing at his little watering eyes. The others drank and drank, and the end of a joint made its way into my flames next. Then there were two men, just two, sweating moonshine, and soon I was fed something else. Flesh and blood. Little shards of bone. It was warm and salty, much better than the dirt on the logs or the tobacco in the cigarettes. The moonshine men put me out soon after. But they didn’t smother every ember. No, they missed a few, and I clung to their heat, searching for more blood. Searching for more flesh.
How It Happened, Honest to God
He was high, that’s how. I don’t do that stuff—never touched it in my life, no sir. And I don’t make no illegal moonshine neither, no matter what Neil’s been saying. I’m a whiskey man, but only when all the guns are put away. There was a fire going, stacked with just as many logs as cigarette butts. I was talking to Ed ‘bout that buck he let get away. Teasing him, how he’s never been a very good shot. He’s fun to tease, ‘cause you can tell it really gets under his skin. Neil was staring off into space or something, lettin’ the whiskey take him away. Then I seen Danny over by a tree, by his gun. He was high off his wits, swaying and all that, knocking into the tree. He must’ve kicked the safety off with his shoe, somehow. I’m shouting at him to watch it, to walk away from the gun, then boom. I swear, a piece of his skull damn near landed in the fire. It was reckless shit, is what it was. I did everything I could. Bet Danny blew his ear right off. Guess he’ll need a hearing aid.
How It Really Happened
My mouth is always open. Always hunting. Always hungry. I am a serpent, with bullets for fangs, for split tongue, for venom. Sweaty hands wrapped around me. They took their aim. My mouth watered for any bleeding prey—pheasant, deer, human. I didn’t care. I always obey.
How It Must Have Happened
Why ask me? I wasn’t there! They’s already told you how it happened. Danny didn’t say nothing to me about it neither, so don’t go thinking that. He don’t remember any of it. It wouldn’t have happened if he had just listened to me. But he don’t ever listen to me! I told him I had a bad feeling about that hunting trip. I told him not to go, but nobody listens to their wife. Now I got all these medical bills to pay for and a kid at home too. Danny can’t work no more, least not for a while. He’s stuck in the damn hospital, half deaf and stitched along one side of his head. Don’t ask me how it happened. Go on and talk to Ed again. Says Danny fell asleep against a tree and left his safety off. That must be how it happened.
How It Truly Happened
They all say he did it to himself. Drinking, smoking, sleeping, whatever. I’ve heard all the stories. They’re all liars, is what they are. Or maybe they were too drunk and high and scared to remember it properly. But it was Ed. Ma let it slip after Ed’s funeral eighteen years after the accident. Losing her brother had made her angry, so angry, and when we’d walked to the open casket she spat, “I’m not keeping your secret no more.” I knew then it was Ed who did it, ‘cause I know my Daddy. He’d never leave his safety off. Never leave a loaded gun lying around, kick at it while he’s drunk or high. Daddy’s father beat gun safety into him as a kid. He just wouldn’t fuck up like that. No, but Ed would. He was always sloppy, even sober. All it took was a few drinks after the service and Ma finally told me the truth. Ed had smoked too much that night, got ahold of a gun, and aimed it at Dad, Ma had seethed. He was saying some stupid shit like, “There’s my buck. I’m gonna get my buck,” and the others were too shitfaced to realize in time. Grazed Dad’s ear and the side of his head. I still remember that day Dad came home from the hospital. I was four years old, and I’d never seen him without his big, long beard before. “You’re not Daddy!” I screamed and cried. He was and he wasn’t. He came home angry. Never talked about that incident. Never. But all the adults knew what really happened. That Uncle Ed did it. Ma’s good-for-nothing brother. They were just covering for him. That’s what really happened.
Brenna Dean is a second-year creative writing master’s student. She loves sitting in the sun with her cats, watching movies with friends, visiting her dogs, and doing all sorts of crafts. She’s always looking for another concert to attend with her best friends, another opportunity to write poems on Beaver Island, and another recipe she’ll probably never bake. Her work has been featured in Furrow, Outrageous Fortune, and Ranger Magazine. After graduation, she hopes to pursue an MFA in creative writing and spend more time staring up at the stars.