Oh -- flash fiction

"Do you hate her that much?” Sherry asked, touching my arm. The gentle touch was meant as much to restrain me as to get my attention. She was wise not to clutch at me.

I’ve thought about this question so often lately. How much do I hate her? I weighed the gun in my left hand. Then in my right. I did my research. Glock Women said I had every right to defend myself.

That woman, Ms. Berenger, has been after me since the first class. Belittling me. Verbally attacking me. Because I don’t agree with her politics. A poli-sci class that doesn’t allow for dissenting views. Does that make any sense?

The Glock 42 is perfect. Less than six inches long. Weighs less than a pound unloaded. Just over a pound loaded. My purse hangs differently with it, but no one can tell by looking. No matter. It’s in my pocket. I don’t have a permit to carry. Don’t have a permit to shoot her either. It’ll serve her right. She’s such a loud defender of the Second Amendment.

I’m not the only one the old bat picks on. Why does a professor need to make a little freshman cry? The woman doesn’t deserve to be alive.

She’s graded me down on every paper I’ve handed in. Every paper. I know I’ve done good work. I’m literate. I’m conscientious. I do good research. I guess I should be glad I’m not sleeping with her husband. My B’s would, no doubt, be downgraded to F’s.

No, she should be glad I don’t want to sleep with her husband. He’ll probably be relieved to be a widower.

“You’re smiling,” Sherry says. “Good. You’re feeling better. You’re not going to do this thing.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Jen, think about this. They’ll put you in prison for the rest of your life.”

“You’re right. But she’ll be dead.” I go around to the driver’s side of the car. “Besides, Orange is the new black.”

“That’s not funny,” she says as she gets into the car.

I suppose she’s right. But can’t she see the humor here? The irony?  Ms. I-got-mine, right wing, righteous bitch gets hers. Why do I not think those words will show up in the local headlines?

I’ve worked hard to get here. Nobody handed me anything. I don’t take student loans. I’ve raised my son by myself. Never taken anything from the government. She takes one look at me and my shaggy gray hair. She hears me say I think the government should help people who need it and decides I’m a dope smoking, Act Up, Hillary supporting, welfare mom.

She hates poor people. Why, in hell, does she think I’m in school at this age? Because I’m not poor anymore, but I’m tired of working this hard to make ends meet. I’m here for a degree and a better job. 

She’s here to keep me and people like me from getting ours.

The traffic is horrendous. We’ve waited through this light three times.

“Jen, what about David?”

“What about David? He’s a grown man. He’s got a career. A wife. A family.”

“But this’ll come back on him.”

“Why? Nobody has to know I’m his mom. He’s got his father’s name.”

“You think he’ll stay away from the trial?”

I touch the gun through the fabric. I know what it looks like. It’s small and black. And mechanical. A little engine for change. A palm-sized instrument of justice and revolution.

“Move, damn it,” I will the traffic. I’ve got three minutes. She leaves the Admin building at 10:45 every Tuesday.

“Jen, please don’t do this.” Sherry’s face is buried in her hands and she’s sobbing.

I’m in time. She’s crossing the street toward me. There is no one behind her. No one else in the line of fire.

I raise the gun. Sherry is looking at Berenger so hard, her concentration is palpable.

Berenger does not seem to recognize me or the gun. She looks the other way down the street and steps from the curb.

I raise the muzzle into the air and fire. Berenger flinches and looks around.

Sherry screams. “You’ve missed.”

“Oh,” I say and drive on.