This chapter is decidated to thebirdsmelody for her many comments and votes on both of my stories. Thanks so much for your support.

Grandpa Parks  

"Attention, officer on deck." I hear my grandpa's booming voice through the corridor before he steps into the room with a small smirk on his lips.

I salute as he studies me from top to bottom.

"Very good, soldier," he praises. "Your clothes are impeccable. Now let's see if your room can hold up."

Pride swells through me that I finally got it right. I have been up since dawn, ironing and starching my shirt and pants to pass today's inspection before tiding the bedroom. It is the third week of vacation and I have been spending a lot of time at my grandparents' house as I usually do during the summer. My grandfather was a retired Army colonel and has high expectations when it comes to discipline and order.

His hand slides into a white glove and he begins to slowly walk through the room. His fingers glide along the top of the door frame and he squats down to check that there is not a speck of dust under the bed. All seems in order until his eyes fall onto my wellies in the corner. He picks them up and examines them closely.

"There is still mud on the soles, Brent," he scolds. "You have to do better than that."

My heart drops in disappointment. I didn't pass the inspection again – this will mean no treats for breakfast for the third day in a row. The whole morning, the scent of my grandmother's Belgian waffles has made my stomach grumble and I was looking forward to a large helping with her homemade cherry topping. Now, the only food I will get will be grits and a dreadful grapefruit.

I scrub the wellies clean before going downstairs. My grandpa is already at the table, enjoying his waffles and coffee and reading the morning paper. I climb onto the barstool across from him and a bowl of grits is placed in front me next to the glass of orange juice.

"I added a few blueberries." My grandmother winks at me fondly.

Grandpa rolls his eyes. "You should not always spoil the boy. He is fourteen and should know how to keep his things in order. When Ryan was his age, there were never any complaints."

My grandmother adds some sugar to the grapefruit, causing more wrinkles to appear on my grandpa's forehead.

"Ryan lived under this roof 24/7 and had a good teacher," she reminds him. "Brent is only here a few weeks out of the year and Charlotte has never taught him anything useful. It's not his fault that his mother is an incompetent slob."

I cringe under her disparaging remarks. She and my mom have never gotten along – she has always felt that my dad was way too good for her and that my mom tricked him into marriage when she got pregnant with my brother. If I hadn't come along, they would have probably split after his death.

I poke at my grits without joy despite the blueberries, eying the grapefruit with disgust.

Grandpa gazes at me over his newspaper. "Eat up, soldier. I have something special planned for us today."

My heart beat accelerates in anticipation – I am hoping we will go fishing again. "What is it, Colonel?"

His eyes twinkle with excitement. "You are almost a man now so I thought I'll take you to the shooting range."

I gasp as my heart skips a beat. For two years, I have begged him to teach me how to handle a weapon but he always refused, insisting I wasn't old enough. I bite my lip, barely able to suppress the biggest grin. My hand automatically begins to spoon the grits into my mouth.

"Don't gulp down your food, Brent," my grandmother lectures with a small smile on her lips, which doesn't cause me to slow down even a bit. I can't wait to hold my first gun.

After breakfast, my grandpa takes me to his study where he keeps all of his weapons. He owns several hunting rifles and an array of handguns. I was hoping he would give me one of those with a magazine like they have in the movies but hands me another with a drum instead.

"This is a Ruger single action revolver," he explains. "For a beginner, it is easier to handle and very accurate."

With awe, I let my finger run over the barrel, enjoying the feeling of the cold smooth metal. I feel empowered, proud to be entrusted with a weapon that could take someone's life. It feels much heavier than I anticipated and I'm hoping that I won't make a total fool out of myself and drop it at the shooting range.

For the next half hour, we go over the basics of gun safety and handling. My grandpa shows me how to load and unload the gun and how the safety switch works.

"Don't ever point a weapon at anyone you are not intending to shoot, Brent," he remarks. "There is always a chance of an accidental discharge and owning a weapon comes with great responsibility."

I nod, fascinated by the whole experience. Next, we are off to the shooting range. My grandpa is a member in an exclusive club in Alexandria and knows pretty much everyone around. With great pride, I am introduced as "Ryan's boy" and by the many fond nods, I realize how well liked my father is around my grandpa's neck of the woods. I suffer through the ordeal of studying eyes until we finally get to the target stands.

It is still fairly early in the morning and there is only a woman about my dad's age practicing her skills. She is unusually tanned, her hand steady and she fires with absolute precision. When we arrive, she briefly glances at us before continuing with her exercise and my grandfather totally ignores her. The sounds of the shots are muffled since we doubled up on the hearing protection, wearing both plugs and earmuffs. She is really good, always hitting the center of her target, which is placed at the end of the lane.

I gaze around the room excitedly, admiring the set up. There are eight shooting booths next to each other and the lanes are maybe eighty yards long. The targets are hung from a replaceable hanger which is attached to some type of carrier system.

"Let's start at 30 yards," my grandpa suggests, moving the target closer.

He shows me how to position my feet and I raise my arm, the gun heavy in my trembling hand. When I pull the trigger, the barrel tilts upwards and a sudden stab throbs through my shoulder. I glare at the target, there is no hole – I missed.

"Remember there will always be a knockback," grandpa explains. "You need to anticipate it. It's hard in the beginning but you will get used to it."

I shoot round after round and after an hour, my shoulder and wrist are burning in agony and the gun has become so heavy that I can barely keep it straight. I only hit the target on the outer ring but my grandpa claims this was still good for a beginner.

 "It took your dad three times before he managed any decent shot," my grandpa remarks. "You are doing excellent, Brent."

I am trying to ignore the pain, having great fun, and want to prove to grandpa that I'm tough. He hates complainers and always tells me that things which don't kill me make me stronger. The thrill of firing a gun and the accompanying power are like a drug. I feel like a badass, knowing that I could take a life away in a matter of seconds.

After another couple of rounds, I am getting more and more exhausted, my shirt clinging to my back from the sweat. It is hot in the enclosed room and the air is dry. The slight hint of gunpowder in the air is making me nauseous but I load the gun again with gritted teeth. Weakness is not an option if I want to come back and my concentration is focused on my next shot.

I imagine Jake's head instead of the target – he is this kid in my class that has been hassling me and I really hate his guts. I would like nothing more than to show off my gun and watch his trembling knees in response. He might even wet his pants. Of course, I would only scare him but it would teach him a valuable lesson not to screw with me. The thought of my revenge is driving me forward.

 At some point, my hand is so numb that I can't get the gun back up. My grandpa decides I had enough for today and we are packing up. The woman has been joined by a man who is just as good as her and I admire how well he is handling the gun, jealousy burning through me. I just hope that one day, I could shoot like him.

He acknowledges my grandpa with a wide grin. "Colonel Parks, I haven't seen you in a while. How is the family?"

"Fine." My grandpa shakes his offered hand. "This is my grandson, Ryan's boy. Brent, this is Darren Reynolds. He is the best sniper I've ever trained."

I give Reynolds a small smile as I shake his hand, attempting to hide my envy. It is not easy to impress my grandpa so he must be really good and I don't like that my grandfather thinks so highly of him. The woman is not introduced and folds her arms in front of her chest while regarding us with a dark face.

"Well, I'm not that good," Darren admits modestly which makes me dislike him even more. He is so full of himself and is only pretending to earn more praise.

He surprises me when his chin points at the girl. "Madison here still holds the record."

My grandpa eyes her dismissively. "I'm surprised you are still in the core. I thought you would have come to your senses by now."

She rolls her eyes. "Times have changed, Ben. Women have moved up in this world, as a matter of fact, I outrank Darren now. Just got back from active duty in Iraq and who knows – one day I might make general."

My grandpa snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure you have the respect of your men when you squat piss in the desert. If you ask me, equality in the military is nonsense."

 She gives him a sweet smile. "Well, luckily, no one cares about your opinions anymore." She nudges her companion. "It's getting late, honey. We should pack up."

She returns to her shooting booth and Darren bids us good-bye after a short apology. 

As soon as we get outside, my grandpa begins to rant. "I'm telling you Brent, women today are nothing more than disrespectful bitches. They will be our downfall one day. You better make sure you find yourself a girl who knows her place or you will end up with nothing but trouble."

I never even thought about it but what he said made perfect sense. My father always told me that women were inferior to men, only put into the world to produce babies and serve their husbands. Given that my grandpa thought the same, it must be true.

I am scheduled to return home this afternoon and we soon are on our way to Quantico. My grandpa drives an old Army jeep and he has the top down, the cool air brushing over my heated face and body. Pain pulses through my arm and shoulder every time I move, but I don't mind. I feel terrific. So far, this has been the best day of my summer vacation and the shooting range beats the fishing trips tenfold.

The ocean sparkles in the distance when we pull up to our split level bungalow. I slide out of the car and my grandpa walks me through the door. He has a key and lets me in but as soon as we step into the reception, my mother's scream and the swooshing of the belt echoes through the house.

My grandpa clicks his tongue. "Your mother is truly an impertinent woman. I pity your father – being stuck with someone like her. I hope you won't make the same mistake and find yourself a nice obedient girl."

I am planning on it. After he leaves, I quietly make my way to my room. My mother's sobs follow me but the swooshing has stopped. I still know better than to interrupt them – the belt is usually just the beginning. Soon her pleading cries are everywhere and I hear my father's angry words, calling her a worthless whore, blaming her for her reprimand. I wonder what she did this time to get him going and for the first time in my life, I actually believe it to be her fault.

This was a very packed chapter since it introduces Brent for the first time to firearms and he also goes through an important transition since all the male role models in his life have very little regards for women in general. 

Keep in mind that these are Brent's important formation years and this will have a significant impact on his life and his value system. Blaming his mother in the end is another step towards becoming an abuser.

I would really love if you left a comment and would be thrilled if you could vote if you felt the chapter met your expectations XD. Thanks for reading.