Tears threatened to spill as you gingerly cradled your right hand — which stung deeply after your father had smacked it harshly. You trembled helplessly, watching as he handled the revolvers he held so close to his heart.

“What the hell have I told you about touching my guns?” Micah spat, examining the weapons — as if afraid your mere touch would spoil the gun’s body.

You were simply curious about the firearms. Although, his harsh, violent reaction was partially expected.