A month passes, and Marnie is still at her parent’s. She won’t talk to me. I don’t blame her. I could have ended that drunken bastard’s life, the picnic lunch splattered with Becky’s blood, dying in our arms. He went down with one punch, and I had his gun in my hand. All it would have taken…
The police screwed it up, four conflicting reports and misplaced evidence. Andy Selles got away with it. Got away with murdering my little girl. Eyes wild, waving that gun of his. Reckless, uncaring. Bastard.
“Marnie, I did nothing. I’m sorry, so sorry,” I say, to the phone on the table. I pick up the pad, with his name and address scrawled in fiery red ink. Checking my pocket, I head out.
At Selle’s house, it’s pouring, and I’m not sure if I can go through with it. He deserves it, oh Becky…oh…Marnie…he so deserves it. Tears race down my cheeks as my feet just move me around to the back of the bastards house. To the back door. It’s unlocked. Stupid, stupid bastard.
Entering the kitchen, it smells like a dive, stale cigarettes, stale beer, and piss. I want to vomit, mostly from the smell. As I make my way, tripping over some crap on the floor, the knife in my pocket is now in my right hand. They both shake in anticipatory fear. I feel sweat pouring out of me, running down my back, my chest, and I clench my teeth so they stop chattering.
The TV is on in the next room. Japanese voices? I peek around the door frame: Rashomon? This bastard, this drunk bastard is defiling Kurosawa? Marnie…oh damn it…she loves this movie, made me love it too, falling in love with her as well that night.
Selle is on the floor. The contents of a bottle of Seagram’s is voiding on the floor. He must have just fallen over. The liquor drizzled to a stop, it’s aroma mixing with the melange of putrid air.
The knife is vibrating in my fist. I want to drive it into his back, ripping and shredding him, like his bullet did to my little girl. Like it did to my marriage. On my knees now, and both of my hands are wrapped around the knife, my samurai sword, to deal the death this BASTARD deserves.
A baby’s cry startles me. The climatic scene from the movie. I watch as it unfolds. The priest, finally, has a reason to continue having hope in humanity, as the woodcutter takes the abandoned child, to bring up as his own.
I stand, taking a step back, kicking an empty pill bottle. Pills and Seagram’s. I don’t do anything. I leave. It stopped raining. I call Marnie as I get in the car.
Author’s Note: This is a story written from a prompt for #SaturdayShorts, a weekly writing contest I’ve entered, and won, before. The writers have until Saturday, June 11th, to post their stories. At noon (EST), entries are closed and a poll is posted, and you can vote for your favorite story up to 8pm that evening.
So, please visit LM Stull’s page at Between The Lines on Saturday, June 11th, 2011, between 12:00pm and 8:00pm, EST (East Coast American Time). I do want you and your friends to vote, but VOTE FOR YOUR FAVORITE STORY. If it’s other than mine, then so be it. I don’t like the American Idol style of voting blocs. I’d rather win for real merit of the story. I am very serious about that. May the best story win!