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I submit my frail body to the throes of the Thunderdome. THE LIST: * Chlorine trifluoride. * A game of pinfinger. May the blood gods be pleased with the crimson tide to come.
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Nov 18, 2013 19:19
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| # ¿ Apr 20, 2024 02:13 |
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Sins of the Father (1,186 words) “Well, happy birthday, Dad,” I finally said as my mother collected the bowls. She dumped them in the sink carelessly and walked out of the room. My father didn’t even look at her. He just kept staring at nothing. All through breakfast, neither of my parents had spoken. They would just glance at one another over their untouched food. I was worried. It was my father’s birthday, he should be as full of life as ever. Sitting in his great chair at the head of the table, he looked broken and defeated, a shell of the proud and lively man I loved so much. “Dad, are you alright?” I asked. He didn’t move. The silence was disconcerting. “Dad, are you—” “I want to tell you a story, Christopher,” he interrupted. He paused, inhaling deeply. “My father was a bastard.” He had never mentioned his father before. I wasn’t even sure if my mother knew anything about him. “On my tenth birthday, he bought me a knife,” he continued, his eyes staring down at the table. “He sat me down, grabbed my wrist.” As he spoke, my father raised his hand and placed it against the smooth wood. I looked down, saw the scars on his knuckles. “‘You ain’t a man ‘til you’ve played pinfinger with yer ol’ man,’” he began, mimicking his father’s voice as he withdrew a knife from under the table. He kept staring at his hand, flat against the table. He lifted the knife into the air. “Dad, what are you doing?” I stammered. “I could smell the whiskey like he’d bathed in it,” he replied. He slammed the knife down into the table next to his thumb. “Dad!” I was frozen in horror. He wrenched the knife from the table and held it above his head, still staring at his hand like a man possessed. “Dad, stop!” He sliced through the air, the knife plummeting towards his index finger. I winced, shutting my eyes tight. The snapping of wood pierced my ears. “‘drat,’” my father croaked, imitating his father’s drunken irritation. I opened my eyes to see this crazed man yank the knife from the table again. He held it in the air like a guillotine and screamed, with fury in his eyes, “‘Well, that middle finger won’t be so lucky!’” I kicked the chair back as I jumped across the table, grabbing his arm. “Dad, what the hell is wrong with you?” I held his arm to me, the knife inches away from his finger. I could feel him breathing haggardly, his rage escaping with each exhalation. “I’m sorry,” he said, the knife falling to the floor as his hand relaxed, “I’m so sorry.” “What are you sorry for, Dad?” I asked, laying his arm down carefully. I crouched next to him, the attendant at the side of his troubled king. Tears glistened in his sunken eyes. “I hated my father,” he said, squeezing my hand, “More than anything. I’d go to the library every day and read all the violent books, hoping he’d die like the Germans or the Donner Party.” He paused, fumbling with his words. “Chlorine trifluoride. I read about it once, something about a one-ton spill of the stuff. Burned through a foot of concrete and sand. Surely it could burn through his bed…” “Dad...” I trailed off, not sure what to say. I concentrated on the balloons with big fifties scribbled all over them, trying to avoid the feeble sight of my father. “He didn’t come home on his fiftieth birthday. Maybe he’d finally stopped coming home to beat his wife and son. I went to bed dreaming of my father being murdered by loan sharks. Maybe they’d use chlorine trifluoride,” he continued, releasing my hand and placing it down on the table. “But all those dreams were shattered when I woke up to him sleeping in his bed like an infant. I grabbed that knife, started walking down the hall back to his whiskey-stained bed...” He stared at the scars on his hands. My eyes widened with terror. It felt like hours were passing. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Did my father—? “But then the police came knocking,” he sighed, “He’d been so drunk he killed a man with his car like some poor rodent. My mother was so happy we went out for ice cream.” He clenched his fists, rubbing the scars with his thumbs. He closed his eyes in anguish. “Dad, why are you telling me all of this?” “‘Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sins of the father.’ Exodus 34:7.” He opened his eyes. His face was blank. I reached for his hand, my fingers clasping his. They were cold. “I’ve always tried to be a good father to you, Christopher,” he said, the familiar warmth returning to his voice. “I know, Dad.” He pulled me close to him. “No matter what... I love you, son,” he whispered into my neck, hugging me tight. “I love you too, Dad.” I felt something wet against my skin. My father was crying. “Dad, I—” Splintering wood and angry shouting drowned me out. In the next instant I was forced to the ground, the wind knocked out of me. “Dad!” My cries were choked back into my throat by the convulsions of my stomach. “David Blake, you’re under arrest for the murder of Rachel Baldwin,” a voice said. The sound of handcuffs. The scraping of boots. Then nothing but my choked breathing against the tile floor. “Christopher, are you okay?” I looked up to see my mother hovering over me. Her face was somber, her eyes red. “Where’s Dad?” I asked, still gasping for air. “He’s gone.” “He can’t just be gone!” I struggled to my feet. “Son, your father... Isn’t the man you thought he was,” she said as she reached out to hold me. “Everything’s going to be okay.” “No!” I cried, pulling away from her, “I have to talk to Dad!” “Christopher, you can’t—” Before she could finish I was out the door. Then I’m speeding down the road, trying to keep pace with my racing mind. David Blake? My father’s name is Kevin Goodwin. I didn’t understand. The knife. My grandfather. The sins of the father. Exodus 34:7. Speedometer rising to 100mph. Still can’t catch up to my mind. The police. Rachel Baldwin. Custody. Not the man I thought he was. None of it made sense! Police sirens. I’m being pulled over. I can’t stop—I have to. “Any idea how fast you were going?” “I have to see my father!”” Heart pounding. I look up. Sunglasses. Impotent mustache. Gun in the holster. “Wait here.” “I don’t have time!” I step out of the car. He stops, turns. “Sir, please return to your vehicle.” I walk towards him. Gun still in the holster. “Stop right where you are!” He comes at me. Pinfinger. I come at him. Chlorine trifluoride. Grab the gun. Happy birthday. Slam him against the car. Sins of the father. Pull the trigger.
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Nov 25, 2013 07:18
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