Beat-up Pickup

A little writing experiment. If you want to see the original picture prompt, visit The Feeless Free Writer's Free Your Ride #1.

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It was almost dusk when we found it, a beat up, left-for-dead truck under under a rotting tree. We weren't supposed to climb over that barbed-wire fence, but before I could stop him, Chris was on the other side. "Come on!" he said. "Just hold the post and don't slip."

By the time I'd reached the truck, with several snags in my skirt that I knew I wouldn't be able to hide from Granny, he was already in the cab. "The door won't open. It's rusted shut. Climb in through the window," he told me. He was always telling me what to do. I pulled myself up and through the opening, smearing the front of my sweater with rust.

Chris scooted over to make room for me. As I slide onto the seat beside him, shoulders first, I started to cry. "Granny told me not to get dirty and now I've gone and done it."

He slid his tan arm over my shoulders and said, "Don't worry. She likes to yell, but she won't hit ya." His voice was softer and I lay my head on his shoulder and sniffled until the tears stopped. Chris pulled his arm away and opened the glove box, rifling through the abandoned papers, so I sat up and wiped my eyes.

"What's in there?" I asked, my fears of Granny fading.

He removed something solid and black from the very back corner and I leaned in to see what it was. Chris turned the gun over and over in his hands, but he didn't say a word.

"Put that back," I said, starting to climb out of the truck. I was shaking. I knew what it was and I didn't want to be near it, not again. "Put it back and let's go." My voice cracked and I knew he would hear me crying again, but I didn't care. I climbed over the fence and ran across the field to Granny's house, where there were no guns, and no Mama either.