Daisy Mae West

Little girl holding a gun and the American flag picture

Mama got me a gun when I was six.

I shot her between the eyes, and she smiled with pride before slowly crumpling to the ground, leaving me to wander about shooting this and that.  Papa got home later that day.  I shot him too, but he was more surprised than proud.  I didn't enjoy killing them, just assumed that was what you were supposed to do with guns: shoot things.

I live on my own now, having found tins of stuff in a concrete bunker at the end of our yard.  Sometimes, Randy used to come around, and we would play cowgirls and indians - I was always the cowgirl - but then I shot him.

I probably shouldn't have done that.  He was much taller than me, and could reach the tins on the top shelves.


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