INHERITANCE

by Krishan Coupland 

The way my mother died had something to do with a cult. Dad won't talk about it. Bad memories, he says, and his face goes all blank. I've looked it up, of course: 27 women in a church hall. Phenobarbital. Paper bags. And, back in that sepia past, my father held in police custody. What exactly he did is never made clear -- whether he was a hero in the matter or something else -- but he was released without charge, and my one-year-old self released into his care.
     He keeps a gun. I've known since I was little. The slick black handpiece taped to the underside of his bedside table. He'll take it out to clean and oil sometimes, when he thinks I'm not looking. One time he got drunk and he started calling me all these names. Lucy, he called me. Sylvia. Dana. Becky. But I'm just me. These days he hardly ever leaves the house.
     When I turned fifteen he brought me a Taser. Gift-wrapped with ribbon. Darling, he said, you know you've got to be careful. Those people out there, they think you're the child of god.    END