I bolted to stop him before he did something even more stupid. My hand grabbed his arm, trying to pull it away from the kid’s face, but my efforts were in vain. Johnny was an ex-marine, and his bicep was at least four times the size of mine.
“Babe!” I cried out. “Let it go! He’s just a kid!” I realized the folly in my own words because the “kid” was probably around the same age I was, if not older, and Johnny had no problem pointing that thing in my direction. I closed my eyes, trying to block the frustrated and terrified tears that were about to come flushing out. “Let it go. Please.” The plea was pathetic, and the image of the suicide boy came rushing through my brain. Why did everything in my life seem to revolve around bullets?
The nausea came back and my knees began to buckle again. The thought of Johnny shooting this boy, whose life was flashing before his very eyes, and potentially having us both get locked up- him for the obvious, but myself for possession and, more than likely, with the intent to sell- was almost infuriating. I couldn’t distinguish between love and hate, fear and utter repulsion toward the man who, for the rest of my days, could offer me the moon.
Time once again became futile, and finally, after the seconds passed like decades, Johnny lowered his weapon and pointed it toward the ground. Reprieve washed over everyone whose eyes were fixed on us, and I swear Comb-over pissed his pants. I watched as the snowflakes clumped onto Johnny’s strawberry-blonde eyelashes like Manna falling from Heaven. He grabbed at my arm and the feeling came back to my jellied legs.