The August prompt from my Florida writers’ group is to use a “hook” within the first few lines to draw readers/listeners in to the story.  This is my offering—

I discovered the gun in the drawer of my husband’s bedside table this morning.  I’d been looking for the bottle of Xanax he’d borrowed from me last night, and I found it lying beside the gun.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement.  I sat down numbly on the bed, staring vacantly at the gun, wondering why on earth my husband would have such a thing.

It looked huge—an ugly, metallic-sheened obscenity lying there like a wide, upper-case L, one arm shorter than the other, a curled stem sticking from between its two arms like an erect, male appendage.  The shorter arm was pebbled with three shallow curves on its inside edge, obviously the arm someone would use to hold the gun and point it.  The longer arm was straight, with a round, black hole at its end.

Loath to touch it at first, I eventually gave in and picked it up between thumb and forefinger.  It was heavy, and oily to the touch, almost reptilian.  After a moment, I clasped it in my other hand and pointed it at my reflection in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door opposite.

The sight frightened me to the point I cried out and dropped the gun on the carpet.  It landed with a soft thud, then lay at my feet, pointing back at me.  Gingerly, I stirred it with my toe to point it away.

Why does Frank have this…this thing in his drawer?  What’s he afraid of?  And why didn’t he tell me he has it?

The gun was still on the carpet when I came back upstairs after lunch.  I knew I couldn’t just leave it there, but I had no idea what to do with it.  Without knowing why Frank even had the thing, I couldn’t put it back where I’d found it.

What if he’s planning to use it on me?

Sitting on the bed again, I swallowed a Xanax from the bottle still lying in Frank’s drawer, then tossed the bottle to my side of the bed.  As I did, a light went on in my anxious brain.  I picked up the gun carefully, walked around to my bedside table, and put it in my own drawer.  The pill bottle followed it, and I closed the drawer firmly.

There!  Problem solved!

Downstairs again, I couldn’t stop asking myself why Frank had the gun in the first place.  We’ve had our share of arguments over the years like any married couple, maybe more in the past few months.  But there’s never been anything leading either one of us to contemplate violence.

What am I missing?  Is there something different lately?  Is he tired of me?  Is there someone else?

Dinner was unusually silent, mostly because I replied to Frank’s conversation in monosyllables.  By dessert, he’d stopped trying, and he scurried off to his den afterwards to watch a game.  I busied myself reading in the living room.  Or tried to.

Why is he so quiet?  What’s he planning?

The old grandfather clock in the vestibule was chiming eleven as I climbed the stairs, dreading entering the bedroom, not knowing what might be waiting for me.  Frank had headed up half an hour ago, so if he had something planned, he’d had time to get ready.  I wondered if he’d found the gun in my drawer.

He was lying in bed reading when I came in.  “I took another Xanax from your bottle,” he said sleepily.  “Had a rough day.”

I slowly got undressed before visiting the bathroom, not understanding how he hadn’t found the gun when he got the pill from my drawer. 

Maybe he did!  Maybe he’s got it under the covers…

When I came back from the bathroom, his light was off.  I carefully crawled in beside him, lay quietly for several minutes until I could no longer hold it in.  “Frank?  Are you still awake?”

“I am now,” he mumbled.

“Frank, why do you have a gun in your drawer?”

“A what?”

“A gun!  Why is there a gun in your drawer?”

“What are you on about?” he said, his voice sharper now.  “I don’t have a gun!”

“I found it this morning,” I said, my own voice rising.  “Don’t tell me you don’t have a gun!  It’s right here in my drawer now.”

Rolling over, Frank opened one eye.  “Have you been taking your meds?  You’re talking crazy!”

“Crazy?  Crazy?  Okay, then what’s this?”

I slid out of bed, yanked open my drawer, pulled out the gun.  Pointing its ugly snout at him, I said, “This is a gun, Frank!  And I found it in your drawer this morning.”

He stared at me in disbelief for a moment, then rolled his back to me again.  “You’re delusional, Emma.  Take your pill and let me get some sleep.”

Infuriated by his nonchalance and denial, I took a deep breath, closed one eye, and pulled the trigger.  The gun jerked violently in my hand, hurting me, and the loud Bang! deafened me.  And then…and then…

I wakened in a cold sweat.  Frantic, I turned to my husband, but he was snoring peacefully beside me.  And despite my frenzied search in the darkened room, there was no gun to be found. 

When I awaken again, it’s almost ten o’clock.  The sun is streaming its narrow beams around the edges of the shades, still pulled down, and I see dust motes floating lazily in its warmth.  Frank has dressed and gone to work.  I lie there for a few minutes, reliving the dream.

Thank God that’s all it was!  Imagine if it had been real!

As I’m washing my hands in the bathroom, I wince at a tinge of pain in my right palm, and I see that it’s lightly bruised.  After dressing, I remember to take my pill before heading downstairs.  On the way out of the bedroom, I hesitate a few moments at the door.

Don’t be stupid!  There’s nothing there!  Forget it!

 Nevertheless, I decide to check, and to my horror, I discover the gun in the drawer of Frank’s bedside table.