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Aug 9, 2009 14:26:37 GMT
Post by Vaughan on Aug 9, 2009 14:26:37 GMT
And my story. Number 2 for me.
Father & Son
“Just give me the f*cking money.”
The old man looked up, staring into the eyes of the young man sitting opposite him. This stranger, this stranger he had known for years, dishevelled, hard, mean. “Son….” He began.
“Yeah yeah yeah. Whatever, you know what I want, just give me some f*cking money and I’ll be out of here.”
“Why do you think I have money to give you?”
“Are you eating? Are the lights still on?”
“Yes but,” the old man never got to finish his sentence.
“Then you have some f*cking money, so give me the money and you can have some peace.”
Even when he’d been born, when the doctor had come out into the waiting room and announced, “It’s a boy!” the old man’s heart had sunk. A boy. How was he going to cope with a boy? As he got weaker, the boy would get stronger. He had a premonition of a dark and forbidding future, his present. He knew this was going to happen.
“It’s too much son, been going on too long, it’s got to stop.”
“Give me some money, and it’ll stop.”
“But you’ve got to look after yourself, get a job, buy a home…” Once again he was interrupted.
“Give it a f*cking rest old man, will ya. Get a job, me? This is my job.” He let the words sink in. “You know I need some stuff to cheer me up, and then I’ll go to my place and leave you alone.”
“To some doss house.”
“Wherever I f*cking want. Probably shagging some homeless chick in a shop doorway, what do you care?”
“I…” The old man let the sentence fade, words unspoken. He was going to say he loved the boy, but that was simply a reflexive action, wasn’t it? Besides, you never told his son that he was loved, that just made things worse.
The old man rubbed his left leg, wincing slightly. The bruise, given to him two short weeks ago during his son’s last visit, hadn’t even begun to heal. The dull ache seemed to have gotten into his bones.
The young man was sitting opposite, staring across the dining room table. He was biting his fingernails, nails black with the soot and shit of the street. His long hair hung in greasy tails from his head, the leather jacket, worn and torn, stained with sweat, what might have been blood, and filth.
This was his offspring. Thank God his wife hadn’t lived to see this. She had been the only thing holding the family together, the barrier through which every snide remark, every bit of anger, ever bit of tension had passed, filtered, calmed. But of course the poison had finally killed her.
The old man looked at his son and he hated him. He’d read that society was to blame for much of the ills of the younger generations, unemployment, drink, drugs. But he didn’t believe that, not for a moment. Sure in retrospect that might serve as an excuse, but it ignores all the opportunities that had been there, the times he’d gotten his son interviews, meetings, even offered him a job in his accountancy firm. Accountancy!
His son was evil the day he was born. The old man remembered, he had known, right when he was told it was a son, “This isn’t going to work, I can’t do this.” A weakness in himself, but that didn’t excuse what had happened, the smashing of windows and ornaments, the temper tantrums, the swearing, the threats, the hurt and pain inflicted on his wife by their child. She had maintained a calm on the outside, but inside she was churning, shrinking, the light was going out. The boy had killed her alright, there was no doubt about that.
“I’m waiting.” The boy said, still chewing on his nails, stopping only to spit remnants across the kitchen floor.
“Your mother,” The old man said.
“You leave mum out of this!” The boy was suddenly angry. “She was the only good thing in this f*cking shithole. She was good mum was, she had to be to put up with you!”
“She wouldn’t want to see this.”
“Well, she’s gone Dad, she’s dead. She ain’t going to see it. She ain’t gonna see you, you’ll never see her. So give me some money now, or I’ll have to start looking for it. Maybe you’d like another kicking?”
His wife had indeed sat at the center of this household. Quietly, discreetly, she had controlled everything that had gone on. She had detected when tensions were high and diffused them, given her son money before he even had to ask, kept secrets that she had taken to her grave. He wished he knew those secrets now, some ammunition he could use against this Devil before him. If only she were here, she’d understand, she’d finally know things have gone too far.
“I could just say no.” The old man said.
“No?” The boy laughed out loud, without pausing for the thought to penetrate his brain. “No?” He repeated, banging his fist against the table, rattling the salt and pepper pot, the vase. “There isn’t anything you can do old man. I’m just being polite in asking. If you don’t give me something then I’m going to take it. And that won’t be good for you, because I’ll start taking by knocking you off that f*cking chair.” Suddenly he was serious again, his eyes focused, staring deep into his father’s eyes. “I might do that anyway, you bastard.”
“I loved your mother, and I knew her better than you did. She wouldn’t have wanted this. We don’t have to be friends, but why can’t we just get along?”
The boy slouched back into his chair. He stretched his legs under the table, sharply kicking the old mans ankle. His father winced, age had made him more vulnerable, there was pain in every small bump and scrape. This small kick made it feel as though his ankle was broken, though he knew it couldn’t be. He tried not to show what he was feeling, but the anguish was on his face. “Mum isn’t here Dad, she’s at St. Martin’s, buried six feet under. She can’t help you now she’s dead.” And then the boy smiled, adding: “I think you must like having me here, the way you’re dragging this out. Mum would have given me the money by now, she knew what I wanted.”
“I should have taken a belt to you when you were younger.” The old man, surprised at the bile rising in his throat, at the anger of his words, leaned forward, trying to ignore the pain in his ankle.
“Yeah, well, you didn’t. And now you’re all but crippled, and old. And you’ll be gone soon, and all the f*cking money will be mine anyway. And I’m going to take everything you own and burn it. I’ll flush the ashes down the toilet.” The boy laughed, filling the room was his cancerous sounds.
“This won’t burn.” The old man said. Before he could even think it through, before he could allow doubts to seep into his mind he reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun. He held it up slightly, just so the boy could see it.
The boy laughed again, this time mockingly, “What the f*ck?” He managed to say, “You serious old man?” And he continued to laugh, not an iota of fear on his face. “You think I’ve never seen a gun before or something? You think you’re going to scare me?”
“I’m just telling you that it ends here, that’s all. I want peace.”
“Hm,” the boy said. “If you had any balls I might be impressed. But, you know.”
The old man couldn’t go back now. If the boy got the upper hand again then he knew it was going to be bad. This final threat, the last thing he could think of to bring some control over his son, was a final gambit. Either the boy would shrink, or he would get more angry.
“So what you planning to do, shoot me?” The boy inquired.
“I don’t like to play with guns, it’s a serious matter.”
“Serious? When people like you have guns it's serious alright, but not to anyone else. You think I’m going to let this go? Who do you think you are?”
The old man sighed, he knew it must come out. “It’s got to end, boy.”
“Well, I agree with that. Absolutely. It’s got to end.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, you think I’m going to let you point a gun at me and get away with it? You’re going senile you old fart. You haven’t got the strength to shoot me. You’d be done for murder and go to jail. Imagine that, we could be cell mates!” The boy laughed again.
The old man had spent his life on the straight and narrow, hard working, a pillar of society, honest as the day is long. He’d helped people, helped everyone, except his son, his wild feral boy. The threat of the police, the shame, the horror. The boy was right, what could be worse than that? And what would his wife think?
“This will end it. It’s got to end. I have no choice.”
“Sure you do, give me some money and I’ll f*ck off.”
The old man raised the gun a little more, allowing his boy to fully see it now. It was an old gun, an old service revolver. It hadn’t been used in years, his wife had hated to have it in the house, and he had hidden it away. His hands were shaking.
“You won’t kill me,” the boy said. “You hate me, but you won’t kill me. I’m your son.”
“You’re killing me.” The old man replied.
“Yeah well, never mistake me for someone who gives a f*ck. But you?”
The tables were slowly turning back in favor of the boy. The old man knew it, the boy was calling his bluff.
“You never were very smart.” The old man said.
“Watch it!” The boy replied, quickly standing, getting ready to pounce.
CLICK. The hammer of the gun was pulled back. The sound was odd, final, it echoed in the room. The boy was startled, actually startled. Was his father serious? He grinned, but this time it was insincere, there was a trace of malice in it, as his mind thought through the best course of action.
“I miss your mother.” The old man said.
The boy slowly sat again, staring into his father’s eyes, trying to see if a change had taken place, was this the same old feeble man he’d always known, or had something changed. But he saw nothing, other than the gun, to suggest it had.
“What, we sit here all day until you fall asleep?” The boy mocked.
The old man wet his lips. “If I were younger.” He said.
“You’re not younger. You’re losing the plot you stupid bastard.”
The old man struggled to stand, his ankle sending a searing pain up his leg. One hand steadied him on the table, in the other he gripped the gun.
“You know I’m going to get you for this, why make it go on longer, why make things worse?” The boy asked.
“Give you the money and you’ll leave, I suppose.”
“Well, something like that. Give me the money, I slap you around a bit, and then I leave. Maybe.” The boy was bold now, his earlier bravado returning. He knew his father well enough, he hadn’t even had the strength the raise his voice during his upbringing. He wasn’t just a bad father, he’d been an absentee father, an absentee father living in the same house. The old man disgusted him, he was weak, feeble, beaten. He wouldn’t last an hour on the streets.
“It’s got to end.” The old man said.
“So end it.” The boy replied through thin, tightly drawn lips.
“Yes.” The old man shuffled from behind the table, moving away from his chair. He concentrated the gun at his son’s chest, he knew if he took it away for even a second the young man would jump up and take it from him.
“That’s a good Dad, go get the money, like a good dog. End it, as you say. Let’s do it.”
For a fleeting second the old man considered pulling the trigger. It was the only thing left to be done. His knew his son was robbing others too, and probably doing all kinds of things, bringing shame on him and his mother. Maybe it was best to end it, once and for all. But as soon as the thought crystallized the old weakness came back into play, stifling him.
“Yes, okay son. Okay.”
The old man shuffled toward the door. He had his hand on the door handle now, pulling gently. The gun still trained on his son.
Suddenly, the boy feigned to rise, jerking up out of his seat with a look of abject evil on his face. The old man flinched and fell back into the gap of the door opening. He held the gun, his hand shaking. But then the boy slumped back, more laughter. Heavy, cackling, it filled the house now.
“Go on old man, and don’t be long!” More mocking.
The old man stepped out of the room. He was in the hallway now. The bed room was at the end of the hall, his room, the room he had shared with his wife. He walked toward it, feeling the pain in his left leg and ankle more acutely as he walked. “This must end.” He muttered under his breath. He reached the room, opened the door, and stepped inside.
The young man was still laughing when he heard the loud rapport. The laughing stopped immediately; the boy listened, listening for any follow up sound, any indication of what had gone on.
When seconds passed, and no sound came, the boy smirked. “Stupid bastard. I knew he didn’t have the bottle.” He said, rising from the chair and quickly making his way to his father’s bedroom. Throwing the door open he sensed a strange smell in the room. Sure enough his father was lying on the bed, a picture of his wife clutched to his chest in one hand, the gun in the other.
The top of the head was a red stain, and on the headboard brain matter and hair slid down. “I knew you couldn’t do it, you weak f*ck.” The boy said. He reached down for the gun and took it, he checked and to his surprise there were two more bullets in the clip. It could be useful on the street. He took the picture too, glanced at it, and then threw it aside.
He’d gotten money from his father too many times, he knew where it was kept. In the living room, a small dark room off the kitchen. Turning, taking one final glance at his father, he went back into the hall, turning right to re-enter the kitchen.
As he entered he stopped, almost losing his balance on the linoleum, his face a rictus of shock. There at the table sat his father, the top of his head missing, a bloody mouth opening, allowing dark sticky blood to drool down his chin. His mother was at the stove, humming an almost silent hymn.
The startled boy stumbled back in surprise, he fell against the door which slammed behind him, he could no longer get out. He raised the gun, two bullets, two bullets left. The horror of what he was seeing had deadened him, but now he went into action, raising the gun and pulling the trigger.
The gun shook in his hand. The bullet tore into his father’s chest, but the old man continued to stand, taking one step toward the boy. Again the gun fired, this time shattering the forehead over the old mans right eye. But he’d barely flinched, there was even the makings of a smile coming onto this strange broken face.
“It’s got to end.” The old man said.
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Addict
Aug 10, 2009 1:50:23 GMT
Post by Vaughan on Aug 10, 2009 1:50:23 GMT
Guys, I got a bit carried away.
I was so excited to write my second story that I posted it a little before time. There were some things that needed fixing, and one significant line at the end that had been omitted (due to my own silliness in missing the obvious).
So I've done a little edit, corrected some errors, and put that line in.
Sorry about that.
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