The Girl by Neil Gaiman

Happiness is a Warm Gun

Sunday 25 September 2011, by Cécile Desbrun


She feels at home on the range; ear-protectors in position, man-shaped paper target up and waiting for her.

She imagines, a little, she remembers, a little and she sights and squeezes and as her time on the range begins she feels rather than sees the head and the heart obliterate. The smell of cordite always makes her think of the fourth of July.

You use the gifts God gave you. That was what her mother had said, which makes their falling out even harder, somehow.

Nobody will ever hurt her. She’ll just make her faint vague wonderful smile and walk away.

It’s not about the money. It’s never about the money.