Janie's Got a Gun by Sara Travis

Janie’s mama is lying on the kitchen floor, her face red and black and blue. Janie’s daddy stands over her, swaying and breathing heavily, his fists clenched into tight balls by his side. Janie stands behind the door, peering through the gap between the door and the frame. She’s not afraid, at least, not for herself. She’s afraid for her mama. She knows the routine. She’s waiting for her daddy to stagger out the back door so she can help stick her mama back together. She’s a pro at that now, her mama says. But sometimes her daddy doesn’t quit it for a while, and on those days it’s even harder to stick her mama back together. One time it was so bad, her mama couldn’t open her eyes for a week, they were so big and puffy. Janie was put in charge of cooking for her daddy, and on the third day, she burnt the eggs and her daddy beat her with his belt until the pain got so bad and everything turned black. Her mama says that day it was her turn to stick Janie back together.

From the gap in the door, Janie can see her mama on all fours, trying to stand. Her legs and arms wobble about beneath her, and she spits out a tooth onto the laminate. Her daddy aims a kick at her stomach but misses, catching her jaw, and her mama’s head snaps back and lands with a crack on the floor. Janie starts to worry. Her daddy’s usually finished by now, out the door in search of lickor, and her mama’s not moving, not even a little bit. Her daddy nudges her with his toe and she rolls over, but Janie can’t see if her chest is moving up and down, her daddy’s in the way, she can’t see anything at all.

She hears her daddy sigh. She sees him shake his head. She watches as he pulls his revolver from the back of his jeans. He holds it limp in his hands, and to her surprise, she hears him start to cry. The gun slips from his hand and lands on the floor with a thud.

Janie doesn’t think. She doesn’t hesitate. She dashes for the gun, raises it up high above her head, and she puts a bullet in her daddy’s brain.