Hell knows many kinds of fury other than a woman scorned.
This week, Dyer Wilk makes his Contrition at FFO ...
This week, Dyer Wilk makes his Contrition at FFO ...
Contrition by Dyer Wilk
 |
 |
Zeke
was about half-a-thrust away from coming when the motel room door crashed off
its hinges. He rolled off of Margie fast, hands moving by instinct toward the
nightstand.
“I
wouldn’t do that,” a voice said.
Zeke
felt his fingers tremble, an inch from the drawer pull, almost within reach of
his knife. But
it wouldn’t do him any good. Even from across the room he could feel the gun
aimed at his back. Margie’s screaming should have told him that much.
He
raised one hand over his head and pushed himself up with the other. Slowly, he
turned around and looked at the man who had crashed their party. He stood there
in the doorway, tall and thin and young, holding an automatic that was sporting
what looked like a silencer. Zeke watched as it shifted from him to Margie.
“You’d
better shut that bitch up.”
Zeke
turned to look at her. The sensual thirty-something waitress he’d picked up
down at the Hollyhock was gone, replaced by some quivering pale little girl.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she let out a fragile whine.
He
put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a long steady look, letting her know it
would be in her best interest to be afraid on mute.
She
shut her mouth and started rasping air through her nostrils.
Zeke
looked at the man with the gun and tried to smile. “Hey, Sam.”
Sam
didn’t smile back. “Hey, yourself.”
“I
guess you were serious.”
“You
ever know me to be anything but?”
“Well,
when you were younger––”
“Shut
up, old man.”
Zeke
did as he was told. Sam walked toward the bed and pulled a chair away from the
desk to sit down. He lowered the gun slightly, letting it rest on his knee. He
kept the barrel tilted up, though. He wasn’t stupid.
For
a moment, he just sat there in silence, his face becoming more and more
aggravated.
“Well,”
he finally said. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
“About
what?”
Sam’s
face darkened. “About this two-bit whore you’ve been banging here.”
Zeke
glanced at Margie, thinking that was a little harsh. Maybe she was a little
loose with some of the patrons down at the Hollyhock. But she wasn’t a whore.
He
didn’t bother correcting Sam. He knew the kid was the sort who once he got an
idea in his head there was no convincing him otherwise.
Zeke
worried the silencer was part of one of those ideas.
He
tried to keep on smiling, to make Sam believe that this wasn’t a problem and
they could all walk away from this thing.
“Margie
and I are friends,” he said.
“Margie
know you’re married?”
“No.”
Sam
tilted the gun up at Margie. “That true? Don’t lie now.”
Margie’s
lips trembled. She started to blubber.
“Come
on,” Sam said.
“He
said he was married.”
Zeke
saw Sam grin.
Caught.
“Anything
else?” Sam asked.
Margie
lowered her eyes. Tears were starting to flow.
“He
said he and his wife had an arrangement and it was okay.”
Sam
let out a laugh. “Damn. Really? Shit. Doesn’t every guy say that?”
Margie
grabbed a sheet and started to cover herself.
“Hey.
Don’t worry about that,” Sam said. “If it’s good enough for him to see, it’s
good enough for me.”
Margie
dropped the sheet and crossed her arms over her breasts, her shoulders
slumping.
“You
happy?” Zeke said.
Sam
shifted the gun. “Nah. Not yet anyway. I wanna hear some answers.”
Zeke
shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
A
deep crease shot across Sam’s forehead. “You kidding me? How about sorry for
starters?”
“I’m
not sure what you think I should be sorry about.”
Sam
raised the gun. “Don’t play coy with me, you piece of shit! You know what I’m
talking about!”
Zeke
felt his heart choke on adrenaline. He forced himself to show no fear.
“I
know,” he said.
“You
know you should be at home with your wife. Not here fucking some whore.”
Once
again, Zeke didn’t bother to correct him. He stood there on his knees, his limp
manhood hanging out. He knew this could go either way. Sam had become a
hothead, some kind of wannabe thug. Zeke wasn’t exactly sure when it had
started, maybe ten years ago during that first stint in juvie. Maybe earlier,
when Sam was just a little kid running around the neighborhood pointing toy
guns at everyone.
Now
he had the real thing. And
there was that idea. The one that wouldn’t go away.
“Do
you love her?” Sam asked.
Zeke
frowned. “Margie? Jeez, no.”
“You
know who I mean.”
Zeke
glanced at the ring on his finger. For some reason, he still wore it––even
though his marriage was mostly for show.
Zeke
sighed. “You know, Sam, when you get older you don’t always feel the way you
did when you were young. You know what I mean?”
Sam
nodded and, with a smile, shot Margie in the head.
Zeke
felt a shock rip through him, clamping his guts as he watched Margie slump
sideways and hit the floor with a sickening thud.
He
turned and looked at Sam.
Jesus, he thought. The kid's changed. He's...he's....Crazy.
Jesus, he thought. The kid's changed. He's...he's....Crazy.
“Get
dressed,” Sam said. “Time to go.”
“Where
are we going?”
Zeke’s
mind flooded with images of a shallow grave in the wilderness.
Sam
stood up and kicked the chair toward the desk.
“You’re
going home. You’re gonna tell her what you did and say sorry. I’m gonna stay
here and clean up your mess.”
Zeke
lowered his eyes and nodded. He dressed quickly, trying not to look at Margie,
trying to find some way to convince himself her death wasn’t his fault.
As
he walked to the door, Sam lowered the gun and said: “Don’t you have something
to say to me?”
“I
love you.”
Sam smiled. "I love you too, dad."
Sam smiled. "I love you too, dad."
