Latest Flash

Contrition

Hell knows many kinds of fury other than a woman scorned.

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.
                     
“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."

Dyer Wilk is a film school burnout who now spends his life trying to tell the truth while lying. He reads and writes constantly because he doesn’t know any better. He has no wife, no children, no agent, and suspects he’s married to his work. He can be found rambling nonsensically at his blog A Season of Dusk.