By: Arleigh Cooney
The date was July 21. I was headed to the archery range with Mom.
Walking on the gravel made a satisfying crunch everytime a foot touched it, sending up a small puff of dirt. Details have always been important to me, so I made a small mental note of this and continued on my way.
Mom was on the left, practically pushing my arm into the bushes by how close she was walking. A red bag dangling over her shoulder, she looked like any normal Mom would. She was over five feet, four inches tall (average height, I think) and wore a white blouse that was adorned by mini pearlescent buttons. On the bottom Mom had chosen washed- out jeans with an embroidered black belt lining the top. She also wore a pair of too-long blue socks that covered the cuffs of her jeans. Her tennis-shoes were white, splatters of mud covering the shoe laces.
Looking ahead, I saw the Parker’s Archery Club. I noticed the outside of this ominous building looked more like a haunted house than anything else. The range was long and narrow, with rotting wood coated in uneven globs of gray paint. The door itself, although looking rusted shut, opened much easier than I had anticipated, sending me flying backwards. The brown box I was previously holding followed suit and launched into the air behind me. Landing at Mom’s feet, the box acquired a sizable dent at the bottom.
“Dang it! There’s no way the arrows aren’t ruined,” I exclaimed. If the arrows are ruined I can’t shoot!
Picking up the box I walked past the “Devil Door” and into Parker’s. A door chime greeted us as we stepped inside. To the left of me there was a long, pristine counter. Taking up the inside I could see a multitude of bulky tools and arrows, some familiar to me and some new.
Behind the counter there was an older man looking as though he was in his late sixties, wrinkles of old age all around his eyes and mouth. Above the old man was the array of bows: recurves, compounds, longbows, and some I didn’t know yet.
While I was taking in the new surroundings, I failed to notice my legs had stopped short in the doorway. Behind me, Mom was urging me to get a move on.
“Seriously Jen, who just stands in the doorway like that,” she said.
Me grumbling “Sorry,” was all she got in reply.
The old man glanced up from the counter and gave us a smile. It seemed to have greeted us like the door chime did. The man introduced himself as Will, and told us he’s the owner of the range.
“What can I do for you two ladies in this,” he chuckled, “fine establishment?”
“This is my daughter, Jenna. She wanted to try shooting.” Mom replied. She paid the man named Will, and we moved past the counter to the shooting-space. Against the back wall were the targets, and that’s where Mom headed to set up mine. While she tried pinning my paper target to the wall, I unpacked my bow.
Out of the red bag emerged the base. A perfectly crafted hand hold, made of hickory with a stripe of black paint straight down the center. Following the base were the limbs, oddly shaped but smooth. They were identical except for the branding on the lower limb.
Attached to the end of both of them was the string. The most important part of any bow, but also the most deadly.
Now put together, it was frightening. A weapon in my hand, and its fuel in the other. One mistake can have dire consequences. While Mom headed back, satisfied with the target now pinned to the wall, I loaded the recurve. Raising the weapon and drawing back, I could feel the string straining my muscles. They began to ache but I held firm.
Trying to get a feel for the bow, I drew back even further. This was a mistake. While I was settling the string back into a safe position, I noticed my fingers begin to slip, my grip on the weapon loosening, and to my horror… drop.
The terrified shriek that soon followed could only belong to her. I stared at the nightmare unfolding before my eyes. An arrow embedded slightly below her shoulder, Mom crumpled to the ground.
“Oh my gosh! Wha-what do we do?!” Will stuttered. He came rushing from behind the pristine counter and dropped to his knees beside Mom.
“Call 911!” he screamed.
Paralyzed, I could only stare. Crimson liquid spooling from Mom’s shoulder and dripping onto the once gray floor, now colored scarlet by fresh blood, and a total stranger by her side.
Breaking from the trance, I whipped out the phone from my back pocket. However I was reluctant to call the paramedics, thinking about who she would want to see more. My heart overruled my head, and I found myself dialing Dad’s number. He would want to know… he can help her more than anyone else.
Knowing Dad was still at work, there weren't high hopes of him answering. After several calls, he never picked up.
“Hello, you’ve reached the voicemail of Chris Waybright. Unfortunately, I’m not available to take your call right now…”
Not bothering to listen to the rest of the voicemail, I waited for the beep. …
*beeeep* “Dad! You have to come to the archery club. Mom’s hurt, the owner, Will, is trying to help but I don’t think there’s anything he can do. She’s bleeding so much… I don’t know how to stop it.” I hung up, tears welling in my eyes, threatening to spill down my cheeks.
When I feel their cool touch drip down my face it all becomes more than I can even look at. Even so I glanced up at the scene, something so gruesome it only belongs in movies.
Mom’s gone limp now. Is she dead, or just unconscious? Her still chest and pailing face confirmed the worst.
It was at this moment that all sense left my mind and body. I spun around and bolted out the door. My heart racing with adrenaline, I clammored down the steps and onto the gravel. Past our car, a dark blue mini-van with a bent license plate on the back.
Ignoring the green stoplight I rushed into the street, desperate to get away from my living Hell. My whole body shaking, my quivering hands reached out to grab onto something. I think it was a branch, or maybe a person. But it doesn’t matter.
I heard a car horn, a deafening scream, and a thud. My world went dark.