Father

Father

A Story by Maddox
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A story I couldn't help but right. There definitely is a deeper meaning. Somebody at my home church used the analogy in bible study and it inspired me to write this story.

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His head didn’t hurt yet, but he knew it would later. Right now everything spun, colors whirled across his vision. Willing his arms to raise, they raised slowly obeying his commands. As heavy as rocks, his arms raised and grabbed another drink, what harm could another do?

“Man,” shouted his friend, Terry. “This party is wicked!” The words barely reached his throbbing ears before Terry moved away, his arm around a random teenage girl. Man, Terry’s comment. Did Terry remember his name? What was his name? The fact that he couldn’t remember frightened him. He set his half full beer down on the table and staggered towards the door.

“Hey man,” called a boy near the door. “You want me to call ya’ a cab?” His voice hiccupped out of his throat. Why did people keep calling him ‘man’? Was that his name?

“No,” he slurred. Faltering, he lurched out the door and spilled out onto the street. Fishing the heavy keys from his pocket, he pressed the red ‘lock’ button and waited for the flash of lights. None came. Starting to sweat, he apprehensively pressed it again and watched. Finally the bright yellow lights blinked at him down the street. He clumsily made is way, slumping against the driver’s door. He barely got the door open before he tried to slide in, earning himself a large soon-to-be bruise on his upper thigh.

Home, where was it? A picture of a perfect, three story house wavered in his mind. How to get there, that was a different story. What was he going to do? Hotel, something whispered inside his head. A hotel, not a bad idea. Where was one? He would just have to drive until he found one. He pulled away from the house, his radio blasting.

Light after blinding light flew past. He thought about sunglasses but knew that it would make it impossible to see. He couldn’t stand the blinding light. Did people really need their headlight’s on? He could feel his heart racing through his chest, why was he so nervous? Nothing was going to go wrong, he just had to find a hotel before he hurled.

What hotel? Where was he? What was going on? The party was just supposed to a light, fun pre-homecoming game party. They had a game tomorrow so there was not supposed to be any major drinking. Coach would tear out all their internal organs if they showed up to the game hung over. It was Terry who showed up with the keg. Ayden’s parents were out for their anniversary that weekend so a few people broke into the alcohol, then more, and then the entire house was overflowing with drunken high school football players and cheerleaders just watching them be stupid.

He hadn’t known what he was drinking, just that it tasted good going down. Something told him that it wasn’t going to be as nice coming back up. He could already feel it searing the back of his throat. Where was that hotel? Unknown voices screamed inside his head, what’d he do? Why? What was the benefit from any of that? If he was able to stand, let alone play in the game tomorrow, it would be a miracle. Although, the game before homecoming wasn’t nearly as important as the actual homecoming game. The team they played tomorrow, this year, was weak. A poor man’s school. The players were good, sure, but they had absolutely no idea what they were doing.

Coach wouldn’t mind the loss would he? Maybe they would actually win. It wouldn’t take very much to beat that team. Everybody knew Coach was out getting drunk tonight, too. Thing is, he’s legal; they were not. Nobody on the team was. Not for at least three more years. His mind wrapped around itself sloppily around the upcoming game. He was going to be fine. He was the best player on the field. Usually. Hung over, maybe not.

Head lights glared at him from a hulking red minivan. He could clearly hear his tires screaming against pavement. A piercing scream exploded all around him. He saw everything. He watched the metal of the minivan fold around the nose of his own car. There was a woman in the passenger seat, her long hand seizing her husband’s thick arm. She twisted slowly around in her seat, turning to look at her kids. Her kids. He didn’t notice the small passengers sitting in the back seat. The oldest was a girl, maybe 16. Her shoulder was occupied by the small dark head of her small younger brother, no older than 10, asleep against her. Snuggled in her seat was a small infant. The baby wailed in her cradle. The young brother only woke from his nap as the hot metal folded around his body, obstructing him from view. He watched, too, as the girl also disappeared behind her mother. The small baby opening and closing its large green eyes was the last thing her saw before a heavy white blanket enveloped his drunken vision.

               

                “Skylar? Skylar can you hear me?” whispered what appeared to be an angel. He didn’t question the appearance of the glowing cherub. At least he knew his name.

                “No,” he tried to say, coming out as incomprehensible guttural groan.

                “He’s alive!” cried the angel above him. In no way gentle, he was lifted. Pain shot through his body, making his head pound. He was alone, even in his heart. He could feel the hollowness plummeting through his heart. The jade pendant given to him by his father pulsed like a heart against his throat.

                “Dad,” he murmured, uttering his first comprehensible word. The crowd above him disappeared suddenly and he really was alone.

                Although that wasn’t necessarily true. He could hear the breath of another coming from his confined space. It wasn’t until then that he realized that he still couldn’t see. His eyes were open, trying to see. Impenetrable shadows smothered him. What was going on? Why couldn’t he see? Blood pounded through his temples.

                “No no. Calm down Skylar,” came another voice. It wasn’t the same angelic voice. Gentle, like silk, calming his racing mind. Light began to edge its way in, tearing its way through the blanket of dark. Tearing himself away from the back of the ambulance. He replayed the accident over behind his closed eyelids. Screaming, metal, smoke, baby, all he could see was saturated with those things. Surely death could only be waiting around the corner for him.

 

                Disinfectant stung his nose, singeing all the small dark hairs. White walls, white floor, white sheet, white clock with ticking black hands over the dark numbers, and a single bouquet of white pity roses. All he could think was that when you were in the hospital, you were supposed to get tons of flowers and stupid stuffed animals. Where were his flowers? Where were his stupid bears with cheesy sentimental messages pinned to their paws? Did nobody care about him? Did they not feel bad about his accident? His accident. The accident. The one that he caused.

                His eyes shot open wide. Where was the family? The little baby with bright green eyes? What happened to that tiny little child? He had to get out of there. He had to apologize. Where were they? What’s going on? He sat up in the soft, white bed. His left arm was encased in a thick black cast. The door to his room smashed open and a tall dark man strutted into the room. Yanked out of his reverie, Skylar looked up. The man was at least six and a half feet tall. Long muscular legs swathed in pressed black fabric. If Skylar had been close enough he was sure he would have been able to see himself in the man’s shined black shoes. Everything about this man, from his slicked back black hair to his flattened black tie, screamed lawyer.

                “Oh great, you’re awake,” grunted the man. He threw something at Skylar. A long black bag that had been slung over his arm. “Put this on, now.” Not waiting for a response, the man strode over and ripped open the bag. He pulled out the hanger and held it up to Skylar’s broad chest. “Luckily you’re father gave me your measurements. This suit is personally tailored. Why aren’t you moving? We are supposed to be in court in an hour. Get up,” his voice shook, starting to lose some of its previous gentleness.

                “Why are we going to court? I don’t understand,” Skylar sputtered but got out of the bed and stood in front of the suit. Black pants, white shirt, black tie. He and shady were going to be twins. Sighing at Skylar’s incompetence, shady grabbed the hanger and pulled the pants off first, shoving them in Skylar’s face. Taking the command without question, Skylar grabbed the pants and pulled them on. With a touch of tenderness, shady helped Skylar to pull on the shirt, tie, and jacket. Sure enough, his reflection was a direct match to shady’s.

                “Who are you by the way?” asked Skylar. Turning to face the shadowy man.

                “I am Dwight Dios. I am your representation for your court appearance,” said Dwight.

                “Wait. Why do I have a court appearance?” Skylar asked, his mind moving sluggishly.

                “For what we are hoping to plead, Involuntary Manslaughter. Although the prosecution is hoping to plead guilty and stick you with a needle. If you get my meaning,” Dwight gave a dark laugh and shook his head. “Let’s go. We need to be at the court house early.”

                “Why are they trying to give me the death sentence? It’s not like I killed anybody,” Skylar argued. An eerie silence smothered all the space in the room.

                “You don’t know?” Skylar shook his head. “You did kill somebody. Three some bodies in fact.” Turning around, Dwight flipped open his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. Without spilling its contents, Dwight smacked down four pictures, on the hospital bed. “Isabelle Demarco, 38, mother of three. Unemployed. Alexander Demarco, 46, father and pharmacist.” The final two pictures smacked down on the bed made Skylar’s heart drop to his stomach where his stomach acid quickly destroyed it. “Brian Demarco, 9 years old. Esmeralda Demarco, 18 months.” Even Dwight’s voice quieted as his fingers skimmed the picture of the small infant.

                “There were five. Five people in the car. I remember. Who?” Skylar sputtered. Dwight pulled another picture from his folder and laid it gently down on the bed next to its family.

                “Graziela Mariabelle Demarco, 17.” Ever so gently Dwight placed the photograph in Skylar’s hands. She was beautiful. Her long blonde hair flowed down her shoulders, framing her intense sapphire eyes. He felt like she had seen her before. Maybe she went to his high school.

                Whether she did or not, he still felt terrible having killed her family. He had been drunk; he hadn’t known what he was doing. Then again, he was underage so he had to at least be charged with.

                “Normally I would like to encourage you to try to wiggle out of charges but you have to do it while moving. We have to go,” growled Dwight. He snatched up all the pictures off the bed and slid them back in the folder and that into the heavy leather briefcase. Dwight roughly clasped Skylar’s arm and dragged him out the door.

                Skylar sat in silence in Dwight’s dark, black suburban. The windows were all tinted and Skylar was willing to bet that they were also bulletproof. Peaking in the side mirror, he slicked back his untidy mop of golden blonde hair. His normally bright silver eyes were rimmed with shadows. He’d killed 4 people. Four previously living, breathing, laughing people; and a baby.

                “What you need to be thinking about is your testimony. You are being tried as an adult so if the charges against you stick, you will get the death penalty,” Dwight’s deep voice filled the empty space left in the car.

                “Wait,” Skylar’s heart stopped briefly. “Who is the judge?” Silence ensued. Dwight took a long breath and glanced over at him.

                “Your father. He is the only local judge available.” Skylar stared, shocked, at the landscape speeding past. His father. Had he even come to visit him in the hospital? Skylar couldn’t remember. He doubted it. He was always too busy for Skylar. He had been to a total of 3 games in all his years in high school. Was there any way that his father would give the order to have his son killed. What father could live knowing he gave the order to kill his child? Then again, his father always said that if he ever caught Skylar drinking, he would personally drive him to the nearest military school.

                Why hadn’t Skylar just left when the alcohol was brought out? Terry called him a chicken, saying that Skylar was too scared of his father to take one drink. So Skylar proved him wrong. Skylar had 3 ½ drinks to be specific. Not nearly as many as Terry. Terry downed over 8 shots of vodka and numerous amounts of beer and who knew what had happened with that girl he had with him? But he, Skylar, had killed a family.

                “Did they suffer?” asked Skylar quietly, staring straight out the window. “Do you know?” He heard Dwight give a quiet, sad sigh.

                “No. Not according to the coroner’s report. Instantaneous death,” he mumbled. A small pressure lifted in his chest but there was still 1,000 pounds crushing his heart.

                “Except Graziela,” whispered the big man. “According to her doctor’s statement, she wasn’t rendered unconscious by the damage done to her body until paramedics reached her and induced a comatose state.”

                “How bad is she hurt?” Skylar’s voice was solemn, depressed.

                “A broken arm, left femur, 4 ribs, and a long cut down her collarbone,” spit out Dwight, reciting it like a book. As he read out each of the injuries, Skylar felt paint shoot through his bones. The gash at his temple began to throb, pulsing along with his thoughts.

                “Oh,” he sighed. Silence filled the car, heavy, pressing against him. The weight of what he’d did smothered him, pressing like a pillow against his face.

                “You’re regretful.” It wasn’t a question.

                “Yes,” he murmured.

                “Good. If the court can see how honestly upset you are, we may win our case.” The case. Not Skylar. Dwight wanted to win the case. Who gives a damn about Skylar’s life? Skylar wasn’t even sure if he cared about his own life. Not anymore anyways. How could people live having purposefully killed somebody? He couldn’t live knowing he had done it accidentally.

                They pulled up to the court house in silence. Skylar got out of the car, following Dwight inside. They sat at their own table across the room from Graziela and her lawyer. Looking at her stunned Skylar. Her previously long blonde hair was cut short in a pixie cut that exposed the bruise across her cheekbones. Her left arm was swaddled in a thick blue cast. Identical to her blue arm cast was a longer blue cast on her left leg. She sat straight in her chair, her blue eyes were empty and hollow, staring straight down at the table. She was like a ghost, hollow, empty.

                Skylar didn’t even notice when his father entered the room. He stood when Dwight jerked him up and sat when Dwight told him to sit. He took refuge in his own mind while every convicting piece of evidence was shown to the court. He didn’t hear the gasps and whimpers when the pictures of the accident were shown. His breathalyzer test and his statement admitting to being drunk were shown next. He waited and knew, he was going to die and he didn’t care. He couldn’t see himself going to school like it was just another day. He couldn’t see himself playing another football game, standing in front of a roaring crowd as he scored a touchdown. He couldn’t see himself living a normal life anymore. His normal life was over, and his father was watching over it all.

                Skylar looked up only when Dwight elbowed him in the ribs. Looking up through the searing pain he saw his father, staring down at him.

                “How does the jury find the defendant?” asked his father, his voice was deep, ringing out over the entire courtroom.

                “Guilty on all charges your honor,” said one woman in a flat monotone drawl. He watched as his father raised his gavel and brought it down with a resonating thwack.

                “Guilty,” he reiterated. “Mr. Skylar Desmond Ray will receive the death penalty.” Skylar’s heart dropped through his stomach to the floor where it beat out an unsteady rhythm. He watched absently as his father stood up from his spot and silently made his way to the stand. He sat where all the witnesses had sat and looked up at the confused crowd.

                “But now I speak as a father. I sentence Skylar to the death penalty for the crime that he is indisputably guilty for but, if he should allow me, I will take upon myself his punishment,” he spoke slowly, his voice easily heard although he was also talking quietly. Finally what he actually had said, sunk into the audience. Shock and upset gradually spread through everybody in the room. Nobody spoke  but the agitation was thick in the air, waiting for Skylar’s response.

                Slowly Skylar stood, moving away from Dwight and stood in front of his father. He stared into his eyes, seeing only love and hope. How could he do this? Why would he do this? He would be killed. Thoughts shot through Skylar’s head, each one threatening to spill incoherently out of his mouth. Then everything stopped, all the thoughts in his head ceased to exist. His mind went blank as he opened his mouth to respond.

                “No,” he said. “No. I won’t, I can’t let you do that.” Skylar watched the shock spread through his father’s face. Disbelief was most prominent in his eyes. “I will not let you be killed for what I did. I deserve this.” He turned around without another word and strode back to his table. Then he stopped before he sat down. Slowly he strode over to Graziela’s table. All the bailiffs in the room became agitated, taking a slow step towards Skylar. He stopped in front of her table, taking in her injuries.

                “I am so so sorry Graziela. I really am. I don’t know what compelled me to get in that car and drive when I was obviously drunk. I will not live with myself knowing what I did. That was your family and I took them away. I am so sorry for everything, every pain that I caused you.” As he spoke he watched the surprise in her eyes change to acceptance and then to sorrow.

                “It’s not okay but I wish that you didn’t have to die. I never wanted anybody to die. I just wanted you to see what you did.” Her voice was soft, flowing like a calm river. Skylar gave an apologetic smile and walked back to his table and sat down, just as the court room broke out in madness. Skylar ignored it all, he felt complete now. He deserved everything he was going to get. The entire time the bailiffs tried to regain control, Skylar stared into his father’s deep green eyes. No matter what happened, he would keep his eyes on his father.

© 2012 Maddox


Author's Note

Maddox
Please please please review! I need it

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I liked the story. It has a good hook and it keeps you reading until the end.
You have good narative ability and the story "flows."
Good use of dialogue. It drives the story forward as it should.
You might want to give it a few more revisions. There were a few grammar and punctuation errors.
Good work. Keep writing. You have a gift.

Posted 6 Years Ago


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AK
It was really good. Just one piece of advice, try making the situation a tad bit more interesting. I mean no offence but it kind of got boring, so yeah.

Posted 9 Years Ago


Perfect.

Posted 9 Years Ago



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Added on January 29, 2012
Last Updated on January 29, 2012

Author

Maddox
Maddox

Columbus, OH



About
Writing is one of the most important things in my life. It's a release. The way I think can't easily be explained to most people. I think in pictures, stories, and patterns. Writing stories is a way t.. more..

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A Chapter by Maddox


Chapter ONE Chapter ONE

A Chapter by Maddox