Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway

[NotAFlyingToy]

((Hansel Williams, Deep Breath, Deep Breath))

Hansel's movements were quick, tempered by years of pride in how fast he could run and how long he could last, and fueled by both a guilty feeling and a rage that again battered at the edges of his consciousness. His shoulder bled, confined in a bandage he'd found in the extensive med kit, many of the materials familiar to him through his experience at the shelter. He'd cleaned it out and carefully bandaged it, tightened the bandage until it was  almost painful, and was content with the results.

The two images most prevalent in his mind as he walked through the brush, his forced march carrying him swiftly towards the edge of the woods, was his father and Theo. Theodore's firing of his weapon still echoed in his mind, causing him to look over his shoulder every three dozen paces at any sound that he heard as unnatural. The idea that he'd been shot was still relegated in that disbelieving part of his brain, the one that was still processing a bullet in Mr. Davidge's skull, waking up on an island with a weapon, and the words his father had spoken to him before he had left for this trip.

You could be wrong.

The words reverberated through his skull, bouncing from a flat out disbelief and a world of guilt that ate at his conscience. The words that had been at the tip of his tongue at dinner tables, at church, during theological arguments at school and in youth group on fridays. The words that he'd aimed at his parents, pastor, teachers, leaders, friends.

At himself.

He'd never fired them. Not once, in eighteen years, had he expressed the doubt and insecurity in his parents' teachings, choosing instead to get heated and argumentative when they were questioned. He attacked those that refuted them, and got flustered when others expressed honest, open curiousity towards them. Not once had he spread out his high school experience like a map, pointed out the way he treated others, the way he was treated, and contrast them with others' experiences in the same categories, asking the question what could be different?. Maybe it was fear that kept him from speaking, or maybe it was insecurity, but the fact remained.

He'd been walking around with a gun for long before he arrived on the island, in this moment, with a wound on his shoulder. Unlike Theodore, however, he'd never pulled the trigger.

You could be wrong.

Hansel stopped at the edge of the forest, dropping his pack on the ground at his feet and deciding to rest for a time. He strode towards a stump of rotten wood, kicked at it idly with one solid boot, and perched delicately. Reaching forward to drag his pack towards him, intrigued by the idea of water and a break from the hard walk he had subjected himself to. As he twisted the top off of the water with a mild grunt of pain, his eyes remained unfocused, quieted.

A week before the trip, in a fit of melancholy, he had asked his Pa if it were possible for him to visit the old ranch. Just to take the truck one day on a little road trip, sort've a graduation present to himself. He'd stay with aunts and uncles that inhabited Texas, could pay for his own accomodations and fuel, and most of all, he was going insane in Washington. He'd needed out.

He had the entirety of the trip planned out. Three weeks of leisurely travel, maybe he'd stay with the new owners of the ranch a spell, experience Texas in a way that he'd never really gotten to as an adult. He'd wanted to marry the image of boyhood fantasy with the jaded, much older eyes of adulthood, and see if it lasted. When he proposed his idea to Pa, he'd been sure the answer would be yes.

"No," Jim Williams had said, and turned back to polishing his gun.

Surprised at the abrupt answer, Hansel pursued the issue.

"Why not, Pa? I can pay for gas."

"Could break 'er, Hansel. Ain't no mechanics where you're goin'."

"I checked the route on Google Maps. There's one every stretch from here to Canadian."

Jim Williams took the time to snort at the mention of technology before shook his head again. "I like takin' that truck to work, son. You'll leave us with one vehicle between two workin' stiffs."

"Ma ain't workin' for the month of July, 'member? She's got vacation time, and she won't need it. Told me so."

"You'll get lost. Neither of us can come down there an' save ya if you do."

"Bought a Garmin," Hansel said, not without some pride, "it's a GPS. It'll make sure I don't get lost."
Jim grunted, turning back to his gun. Hansel waited a moment before going for the kill. "Pa, I'm a man now," he reminded his father, "an' I'm gon' be a college boy soon. I reckon I'm due one last big move 'fore-"

"Reckon, do you?" Jim snarled, jerking his head up. "You ain't listenin' to me, boy. The answer's no, an' it's gonna stay no, no matter how many Googly Maps or Garfields you buy. Don't matter a whit to me what you 'reckon'."

With the sudden outburst, Jim Williams turned back to polishing his gun, leaving his son staring at him, flabbergasted. The sudden explosion of unreasonable attitude left Hansel feeling upset, angry, and scared. Upset, for having his dream trip crushed. Angry, for having his father be so unreasonable, so utterly unshakable no matter what evidence or reasoning slapped him in the face.

Scared, because when Hansel looked at his Pa in that moment, he got the feeling he was looking in a mirror.

The thought brought Hansel back to the present, clutching a bottle of water and a gun, and sitting in an alien place until God knew when. Today alone, four shots had been fired, one had been wounded, and it wasn't even mid-day.

Hansel took a long, slow drink of water, replenishing his thirst, before recapping the bottle and tossing it back into the duffel. Theodore Fletcher had shot him, but the anger Hansel felt wasn't directed at the slight boy. In fact, he doubted that the boy was the first to pull the trigger in Hansel's direction.

No, he thought as he stood, that honor belonged to himself, and himself alone. He'd shot himself with a gun he'd loaded years ago, and it had taken until now for the wound to appear.

You could be wrong.

Bullseye.

Alone, scared, and tense, Hansel headed out once more, this time for a single red flag in the distance.

((Hansel Williams, Far Below Par))