he knows i'm not good with surprises.

he opened the passenger door for me. my only instruction was to look at the piece of paper on the front seat.
i didn't know where we were going or what was waiting for us.

the paper was blank; i laughed as he walked around front and got in the driver's seat.
before i could question it, he took every color of pen from the center console and handed them to me.

you're going to draw a picture.


of what? i asked.

of everything that is stressing you out; everything that makes you mad and sad and frustrated.


then, we started driving. and driving.

twenty minutes into the desert i had drawn and written down everything i could think of.
[including a picture of the jerk-face sharks that eat baby sea turtles, which i had reluctantly watched on PBS the night before.]


we turned onto a dirt road.

is it hard to talk positively while writing negatively?


he can read minds.

we came to a stop. i folded up the paper and gave it to him.

from the back he pulled a cardboard box and placed my pain inside.

he hammered a stake into the dust and placed the box on top. a target was taped to the outside, and within seconds he placed hearing protectors on my head and a handgun in my palm.

and then i shot six rounds.

he reloaded.

i shot again.

and again.

and again.

and that was it.

he complimented my accuracy. we got back in the car and he drove me home.

my thumb is black and blue. i have a blood blister on my pinky.
battle scars i proudly show off.

but with them is a hole in my heart.
for a boy that picked me up on a saturday night, just to help me relieve stress.
when he has an even heavier load to carry.