Woke Up This Morning And Got Myself A Gun นิยาย & เรื่องราว

She was trying to reclaim control in a world that had taken too much from her already. I understood that. Still hurt, though. I sat up slowly, careful not to wake her, and rubbed the back of my neck. My muscles ached from tension. My gun was still on the nightstand where I’d tossed it last night after coming home. I reached over and locked it back in the safe. No more danger today. No more past. I padded downstairs and started the coffee. I didn’t need it — I hadn’t slept enough for it to matter — but it gave me something to do with my hands while I gathered my thoughts.

It was the only physical proof of everything I owned—the ultimate weapon I needed to reclaim my life and break free from their control forever. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the key, and inserted it into the lock. The old brass mechanism turned with a heavy, satisfying click. I pushed the door open.

He slipped a small black card into my hand. Then stepped back into the rain and walked away. I hoped so too. When I tried to stand, my vision blurred one last time. I woke up to the beep of a heart monitor that made me realize I was back in the hospital. I turned my head and saw Alex sitting in a chair by the bed with his head in his hands. "Alex?" I croaked. He looked up, his eyes were bloodshot. "You're awake. Thank God." Memories came crashing down on me and I choked out a sob.

"What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost." ​"Get dressed," I rasped, my voice sounding like it was being dragged over miles of jagged gravel. I didn't look at her; I couldn't. Not yet. "Black layers. The heavy boots. Move, Leona. Now." ​I didn't wait for the barrage of questions I knew were coming. I strode across the room to the floorboards I had meticulously loosened three days after we arrived, a precaution I had hoped I’d never need. Beneath the wood lay the only things that truly mattered in a world that refused to let me go: a Glock 17, three spare magazines, and a heavy, serrated combat knife. I checked the chamber with a practiced, mechanical ease, the metallic clack-slide of t

"Bree, say my name." As I flailed around, I accidentally kicked the massage gun I had hidden at the foot of the bed. Even on the lowest speed setting, it was still supposed to be rather fast. However, after what I had been through, I suddenly felt that it wasn't all that great after all. Uncle Theo's lips slowly curved into a smug smile. "You shouldn't have bought a massage gun." Grinning, he took it from me and added, "You should've bought a water gun."

They were closing in, and I didn’t have much time. My fingers finally found the cool metal of the gun beneath the desk. I gripped it tightly, the weight of it giving me a small sense of control. I couldn’t wait for them to make the first move. I had to act. With a sudden burst of energy, I sprang up from behind the desk, gripping the gun tightly in my hand. Without thinking, I squeezed the trigger. The gunshot echoed in the room, and I watched as one of the men crumpled to the ground, his body going limp.

The only sounds were my shoes squeaking the floorboards, and the door as I opened and closed it behind me. *** You know what I did then? I stood outside Handy’s, staring into space. I didn’t see anything. Not the street, the dark stores on the other side, or my rental. All I saw as I stood outside the store? My .38. It crept up on me, y’know? The idea of actually using it. I certainly hadn’t been thinking of it when I’d woken up in the morning . . . but I knew it was under the bed

I roll over with the pillow over my head. I toss and turn for hours, and sometime after two in the morning, I sleep. I wake up feeling groggy and decide to take a jog to try to shake the heaviness out of my body. I stay in good shape to fight and earn money. I plan to shoot Frank with my Smith and Wesson .38 Special. Five shots that pack a punch. The gun is small and easy to conceal. If I can't kill Frank in five shots, it's because I'm already dead. Really though, I want to beat him to death and listen to him beg while I break every bone in his body.

I saw Lucian grunt in pain, his arm giving way as blood blossomed on his sleeve. In that moment, a primal survival instinct I didn’t know I possessed took over. My hand fumbled in the open desk drawer beside me, my fingers closing around the cold, heavy steel of a gun. I rose, my hands shaking, and pointed it at the man advancing on Lucian. I squeezed the trigger. The sound was deafening, the recoil slamming my shoulder. The man crumpled.

While hiding, I kept firing at anyone who approached Zac. When will he wake up? My bullets are almost gone. This is my last bullet, and I decided to fire it at Zac. He needs to wake up. He's spacing out again and not himself. How much bullet does he have left? I aimed the baby Armalite at the gun in his hand. "Hey, ugly! Wake up, this is my last bullet. Are you going to let me die?" I said as I fired at him. And he did wake up! But now I'm out of bullets.