By Brett Matthew West
I reached down and picked up the cold, metallic, spent shell casing off the ground. It was easy to tell it had been fired from a 9mm.
Kind of like the one that would be laying on my Defense Table during the upcoming trial. The one I will refer to as Exhibit A.
I twirled it over and over again in the fingers of my right hand. The mental picture I was getting suddenly became vividly clear. How I wished it didn't ring true. But, the proof was undeniable.
I knew the boys-in-blue had missed it when they combed the residence for any signs of physical evidence it contained.
Question is was lady luck smiling on the fact they had not discovered this spent shell casing?
I could simply make it disappear. No one would ever know it even existed. And, for the fleetingest moment that is what my heart told me to do.
But, my mind said, in the long run, don't be stupid.
So, it was from a 9mm. That didn't necessarily prove it came from the murder weapon, or that the young defendant I represented was the one who pulled the trigger on the pistol it came from.
Bullcrap!
My gut instincts, that were never wrong, told me that's exactly what it meant. And, that wishful thinking would not make this shell casing go away. It became Exhibit B.
It also meant my client could be locked away like a caged animal forever, or until he received a hypodermic needle full of pentobarbital, the infamous respiratory failure drug widely used for executions, that would put him to sleep permanently.
I was still fighting to get him charged as a juvy, not as an adult, so he wouldn't end up throwing away the rest of his natural life on top of everything else he has been through.
The State Attorney, on the other hand, who happened to be up for reelection, and was looking to make a name for himself, demanded otherwise.
Was I losing my illustrious touch? I have been a Defense Attorney longer than most other people in our little community have been breathing air. And, that's a long time cousin.
I was also highly respected as the lawyer you wanted to defend you, even if my fees were exorbitant. Simply stated, my well earned reputation was I won my cases.
In my lengthy career there has only been one occasion I ever lost. Oh, he was guilty as sin. And, believe me, I would have thrown the switch on the electric chair on that one myself. He deserved as much. My record started out 0 wins and 1 loss. Ain't that way no more. Not by a very long shot.
However, this one certainly did not deserve such a fate. At least, not in my book. I knew I would stop at nothing legal to get him off the hook. His was self-defense if the word ever existed.
The first degree, premeditated murder charge he faced was way out of line. So, needless to say this battle royal hadn't even begun.
I'll let you be the boy's judge, jury, and executioner. I'll present the evidence as I will at trial and you render your verdict. I will warn you it is pretty graphic indeed.
And, I'll also remind you "he who lives in glass houses should not cast stones" as the wise, old, adage goes.
Small town Americana. That's very descriptive of Blythe. Our little neck in the woods. The kind of place where everybody knows everyone else on a first name basis. You know, reach out your front door. Shake your neighbors hand. All warm and fuzzy like.
With me so far? Want to make sure you keep up with The Jones here. Take notes if you have to. Remember, I am telling you this with you being the jury. So, need you to pay extra-close attention as we go along.
To simplify a definition of what premeditated murder is one must understand it is the deliberate thought of deciding you are going to kill another human being. Then, acting on that notion to accomplish your goal.
Premeditation rules out actions committed in the heat of passion, on the spur of the moment, and random acts of violence perpetrated on your victim.
Violence. That sums up my client's life to a capital "T". They say alcohol cooks the brain. Especially large quantities of the liquid. No, my client was not a drinker.
His victim, and I use that term very negatively here, was. Or, at least, that is what all the fancified news reporters in Blythe covering this trial would want you to believe.
My opinion differs significantly. I state, for the record, my client, who I have taken on as a charity case by the way, most certainly is the victim in these affairs.
Now, let's start examining the tragic events that led up to that fateful night in question of October 31. Oh, that's right. You don't say. But, it was Halloween, wasn't it? Gee, ain't it funny how time slips away?
However, I assure you this case is no laughing matter, as you will quickly find out. There are no witches flying around on brooms, no black cats, and no ghosts of any kind that will jump out of the shadows and spook you.
I am going to do that myself.
So, let's begin.
Harold Manor was born and raised in Steel City, Pennsylvania. A machine operator by trade, he married a woman, mostly for convenience. She had a tidy nest egg stashed away from the untimely deaths of her parents.
That was before she suddenly succumbed to a mysterious ailment, leaving Harold Manor her entire estate, and a young son.
Right there is where our little case starts to get dicey.
For you see, Harold Manor never wanted the boy. All the kid ever did was cramp his lifestyle. I refresh your recollection by reminding you that well-to-do mode of living he enjoyed was not one my client did.
Harold Manor had another issue that drove his world. He was madly in love with the bottle. It grabbed a hold of him and would not turn loose.
Gin, vodka, whiskey. It did not matter. He treasured them all.
And, while he was drinking his life away, my client suffered unspeakable neglect and abuse at the hands of this monster who never wanted, cared for, or loved him.
Instead, he was relegated to sleeping on a worn out blanket. Much the same way a dog would be. The ice cold floor for a bed.
He was also thrown scraps, mostly moldy scraps at that, for his meals. When he was fed at all.
With all this mistreatment occurring, my client somehow managed to stay alive in a house of horrors, at what was his address? Oh yea, that's right, it was 1313 Maid Marion Lane.
And, that was just the beginning of his nightmares.
Let me call my client, Charlie, over here and have him remove his shirt so you can get a real good close look.
You won't need a magnifying glass to see the scars that cover Charlie's small back. Ones I submit as Exhibit C.
Charlie received these scars from the rawhide leather strap his father administered his almost daily floggings with. It never mattered how miniscule a mistake the boy made. You now witness the results of those errors.
Where was DCF while all this was going on, you may wonder. The Department of Children and Families included themselves into several alleged incidents involving Charlie. However, their reports, I submit as Exhibit D, always came back marked "No Issues Noted".
And, Charlie would experience another sound lashing.
He dared not cry out during these beatings either, because he knew if he did make such a grievous decision they would last longer, and hurt much worse, than they were already going to.
Now, I'll turn Charlie sideways here, and we can move on to Exhibit E.
I want you to take special notice of this scar that runs from just below his right ear, and down the side of his cheek.
Rest assured Charlie did not receive this scar from falling down, as his father tried to tell DCF on one of their visits. This scar was presented to Charlie about a year ago. A thrown whiskey bottle found its mark.
"Okay, Charlie," I instruct the boy, "turn now so the jury can see your chest."
The boy slowly turns in the direction I asked him to. A whole lot of movements bring him discomfort these days. See, Charlie's suffered a boat load of broken bones, and torn ligaments, in his life.
Compliments of his father's rough handling, of course. Several of which never received necessary medical attention.
Now, I ask you, the jury, to count how many of Charlie's ribs you can see. One, two, three...
What's the matter? Does Exhibit F make your stomach a little bit queasy? Well. It should! But, don't let his malnourishment alarm, or nauseate you.
Since Charlie's been confined in Juvenile Detention he's been able to keep most of his meals down. A big improvement over what he was able to do not three weeks ago.
And, you still think Harold Manor was the victim here?
For Exhibit G, I really should have Charlie remove his pants. There are certain cigarette burns you need to see. Don't be repulsed. They go from his waist to his knees, and were momentos received after DCF's last home visit.
Which, according to the record of such events, I will quickly scan for you here in my stack of notes, was eight months ago.
I drop the stack of notes back onto the table I am using in the courtroom, and have Charlie remove his socks and shoes. He'll answer my question of where his missing toenails are.
Or, you may want Harold Manor to answer that one instead. Exhibit H proves how handy he was with a pair of pliers.
While Charlie's getting dressed I will tell you he admits shooting his father.
However, can you honestly state in your heart of hearts it was premeditated murder as the State Attorney claims?
Charlie sits down at my table while I begin detailing that Halloween horror night.
Now, follow me real closely here. This is important. And, you do not want to miss this key piece of evidence before you render your verdict.
Fourteen year old Charlie Manor arrived home from school at two-thirty-eight that afternoon. While all his friends were excited, anticipating the fun Halloween always provided them begging for candy, Charlie had a trick of his own on his mind.
He simply could take no more.
Charlie knew where the 9mm was kept in his father's bedroom closet. He had handled it several times before. Always being extremely careful not to get caught by his father doing so.
However. There would be no contemplations of suicide this time like all the others before.
Blood would be spilled. But, not his. Charlie was in complete control of his emotions.
He checked the chamber. Yep. It was fully loaded. All he needed was one round to make the nightmare that was his life disappear forever.
Five minutes later Charlie heard his father's rattle trap pickup barrel into their driveway. He took a deep breath.
Charlie knew when his father came home mad at the world, like his erratic driving indicated he was, the boy had a severe penalty coming his way.
Charlie did not allow his father to reach the front door. Their little family get together would occur outside in broad daylight instead.
Feeling no remorse for his actions Charlie made his way outside.
Harold Manor noticed the gun in Charlie's hand.
The boy held it tightly. He wasn't about to miss his target.
Before his father could even speak Charlie plugged him deep in the middle of his chest.
One round brings us here today.
You've heard the evidence presented to you with riveting attention. And, I appreciate that from you.
Now, I will rest the Defense's case.
Remember, this is a Capitol Murder case. The State Attorney says the Death Penalty is on the table, and he is pushing hard for that conclusion. Charlie is being tried as an adult.
So, tell me honestly, what you would do with this spent shell casing I found? I ask, laying it down on the railing in front of the jury for all of them to see.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury please render your verdict. You be the judge of when enough is enough.
Charlie's fate rests in your capable hands.
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EPILOGUE:
Charlie is now an errand boy in my office. He comes home with me at night.
Scars on the outside heal. It's the ones on the inside we are still working on.
He's healthy. He's happy.
And, he knows the nightmares of his past are far distant memories better forgotten.
His future looks brighter every day.
He wants to either be a pilot, and fly supersonic jets, or maybe, just maybe, an advocate for other boys who have suffered the same kinds of abuse he has.
Whatever he decides to do, he knows I am never too far away when he needs an ear to bend, or the corrective guidance he craves, from someone who genuinely cares about him.
And, that I do.
These adoption papers I just filed with the court prove that.
And, me?
"I still win my cases," I say, playfully mussing Charlie's soft blonde hair, "all of them."
@October 2015 by Brett Matthew West
All Rights Reserved
No portion of this story, including the storyline, can be used without the written approval of the copyright holder
| Author Notes |
I know this is lengthy, and some may chose not to read it because it contains approximately 2,550 words.
Which, by some FanStorians standards, apparently is too many. Or so I have heard. However, I believe a story requires the number of words it needs to completely tell it. Those who do read this story I have no doubt will provide me with the honest feedback I am looking for. They always do. Thanks bd shutterspeed for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little tale. |
By Brett Matthew West
Eleven-year-old Marty Jennety stood in his coach's office crying -- harder than he had ever cried before in his entire life.
Being the only son of a highly decorated United States soldier, crying was not something Marty Jennety had a whole lot of experience doing.
His daddy's constant deployment to overseas areas, and combat zones, more than he was home, had taught the boy to be strong beyond his years. He had to be.
When his daddy was gone Marty was the man of the house, and his mother's little helper.
This was the way it had always been, and besides, Marty knew his daddy was depending on him to do just that.
Coach McMillan knew his players inside out. To see his star pitcher, with tears streaming down his face like they were, he immediately knew, without asking, something terrible had happened. In Marty's case, it could only be one thing.
"I-I-I'm sorry, Coach," Marty barely managed to say the words through his tears, "I can't play today."
Today's game was the hottest topic the small community of Boulder City had been talking about all week. The team needed to win this championship game, and they were headed straight to the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pennsylvania.
All season long the players had worked hard completing extra chores, holding yard sales, and doing anything else they could do to raise the money needed to make this trip. Each player had to pay his own way to Williamsport.
And, everybody knew the Wildcats were special, too. Their record proved it. They were unbeaten.
It did not matter their opponent that afternoon was the much bally-hood Tigers from the Texas Panhandle. A team that had demolished every opponent they had faced by ten runs or more.
Which, in Little League baseball, they all knew, was the so called "Mercy Rule" that mercifully halted games when one opponent was drastically outperformed by the other team.
And, rumor had it the cocky braggarts were boasting all over the place that the Wildcats would suffer the same fate.
Rather concerned, Coach McMillan asked Marty, "Why not, son? Everybody is depending on you, our best player. You don't want to let the team down, do you?"
Marty reached into the right side back pocket of his uniform pants. He had dressed out for the game before deciding he would not play. There, he retrieved his I-pod. Unable to speak, all he told the coach was, "Here!"
Coach McMillan took the electronic device from Marty's outstretched hand. He turned it around, so he could read the displayed message, that notified the boy his father had been killed in action on his fourth deployment to Somalia.
"I'm so sorry, Marty," was all the coach said, handing the boy back his I-pod, "If there is anything, anything at all, any of us can do for you, just let me know. Okay, son?"
Then hugging Marty in an effort to comfort him, he stated, "Of course, I understand. I'll have Bobby Thompson pitch today."
Marty broke free from Coach McMillan's grasp and ran into the locker room. He needed to be alone. The other players had not arrived at the ballpark yet.
He could not understand why the world always had to beat him down. The other boys always had their daddies home with them all the time, but, not him, and, he never would again. Life was so unfair.
Marty found a seat in a corner by his locker. He buried his tear-stained face deep in the palms of his hands, and wept louder.
How he wished he was old enough to go over to Somalia and personally blast all the terrorists away himself. But, that was not about to happen either.
The longer Marty sat there the closer game time came. He hated disappointing his teammates, and all the people who had come out to the stadium to see the Wildcats play. After all, he was the team's best player, and one of the top pitchers in the whole state of Texas.
Marty was also supposed to be presented with a special trophy for his accomplishments in those areas that season before the game started. He wasn't sure he could even walk out to the mound long enough to receive his award.
He knew what his daddy would tell him to do. He would say, "Get up off your tail end, Little Man. The show must go on."
Marty wasn't even sure he could stand being his daddy's "Little Man" any more.
Right now, he was a very deeply hurting little boy. Nothing more. Not a baseball player. Not a teammate. Nothing but a great big disappointing ball of nothing, sitting in a locker room, bawling his eyes out.
Once again Marty thought he heard his daddy's voice speaking to him, saying a bit more sternly this time, "I said, Little Man, get off your tail end and go out on that field. I want to see you play today. Show them what a soldier's son is really made of. Now, move out soldier!"
Desperately trying to dry the last of his tears, Marty heard his teammates coming through the locker room entrance. Quietly, he watched them dress for the big game, and head out to the field. He hardly spoke to any of them.
Rummaging through his locker he found his dad's Army hat and placed it on his blonde head. That made him feel a little bit closer to his daddy. Maybe the Colonel's son wasn't a total waste after all.
Pulling himself together as best he could, Marty slowly walked out to the field. He noticed all his teammates were in their positions, warming up. They would be in the field first.
Marty paused coming up the dugout stairs. Could he even manage to walk out to the pitching mound long enough to receive his trophy? He could feel his feet not wanting to take him there.
Marty noticed a peculiar sight when he surveyed the stands. His daddy's whole unit was proudly standing, stoically, in the bleachers. He wondered why, but could hardly look at them. Like statues, they just stood there in fresh pressed uniforms and boots that shined like glass.
When he arrived at the pitcher's mound the Mayor, Councilmembers, and other assorted dignitaries were circled around in front of the pitching rubber to greet him.
The Mayor held the trophy he was going to present to Marty in his hand. He walked up to the microphone and began his conversation, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Juniper Park."
He paused, then continued by saying, "It gives me great pleasure, as the Mayor of our fine city, to present this trophy to the biggest reason our boys are not only playing for the league championship today, but are going to win this game!"
And, then he added confidently, "Because, like you, I know they are going on to Williamsport and bringing back the Little League World Series championship too!"
The Mayor's comments brought a loud cheer from those in attendance.
Then he spoke the words Marty Jennety would never forget, "Now, if you will ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome home, from his fourth tour of duty in Somalia, Boulder City's own native son, Colonel Terry Jennety!"
Nothing else could be heard above the crowd's loud cheering.
Momentarily, Marty froze in place. He stared as hard as he could look. He could not believe his daddy was walking up the dugout steps and heading out to the playing field.
Like greased lightning, Marty dashed straight into his daddy's outstretched, waiting arms. The Colonel caught his son in midair.
Marty hugged his daddy tighter than he had ever hugged anything before. The Colonel reached up and wiped the tears out of his son's diamond blue eyes. Then, he carefully stood him on the ground.
He reached around, and firmly swatted Marty on the seat of his pants, asking him, "Don't you have a game to pitch, Little Man?"
His daddy's Army hat still on his head, Marty was more ready to pitch than he had ever been before.
Quickly, the Colonel reached out and grabbed his Army hat off the top of his son's head. He placed a Wildcats baseball cap there instead.
The last thing Marty needed was to be disqualified from playing because of not being in the proper uniform.
Marty Jennety pitched the game of his life. He faced 21 batters in the seven innings the game lasted, and struck out nineteen of them. The other two weakly grounded out to the secondbaseman.
Marty also scored the game winning run. An inside-the-park homerun.
Final score: Wildcats -- 1 and Tigers -- 0.
Williamsport was next.
But, that is another story to be told later.
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Epilogue:
After the game was over it was learned that certain members of the Tigers, under their coach's instructions, had texted Marty the message about his daddy being killed in action in Somalia.
This was done in an effort to create an atmosphere they felt the Wildcats would have no chance of winning the game under.
They, as well as the coach, were banned from ever competing in Little League games again.
Colonel Terry Jennety remained home the rest of his military career.
Named the game's Most Valuable Player, Marty Jennety had once again proven what a soldier's son can do.
And, that he was indeed his daddy's Little Man.
Word Count: 1764
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| Author Notes |
The contest rules state sports must be the central theme of the story.
I have tried to make it such. If it is decided I failed in my mission, so be it. This story was written by a proud United States Army veteran. It is dedicated to all veterans. Our great country's true heroes, on this their most special day, November 11 -- Veterans Day. May they, and all the sacrifices they make for this great nation, never be forgotten. Stories of this nature need to be told in support of all the proud men and women who serve. Remember: All gave some. Some gave all. Take Me Out to the Ballgame, by pattigirl, was selected as the accompanying picture of this story. |
By Brett Matthew West
One of my ex-cellblock mates once told me not to meddle into another man's business because that's a bad bet. And, he was speaking the truth. Nevertheless, that was exactly what I did. The bastard had it coming.
I was already on Death Row, so I had absolutely nothing to lose. See, in this jungle there is an unwritten rule that states: murder the old lady, no big deal. The broad probably needed killing. Harm a child and your days are numbered.
He was what we in here call a Chomo. That's child molester to you. Think you're coming to the yard and ain't going to be found out? Here's a newsflash for you. Even the blue uniform-wearing guards can't stand Chomos. They have no problem pointing them out to us either.
So, giving him an ear-to-ear grin with my homemade shank was nothing to me. Any number of us would have done it. I just happened to get to his ignorant ass first. He became my victim number eight.
I wondered why I was let out of Solitary. After all, I have been here at least three years with nothing but the peeling paint on my walls to keep me company. See the picture for a real close up view of my home.
That, and the roaches I don't worry about any more. Every now and then, I even get a little colony of ants, I have named, that crawl up the cold ceramic sink on my far wall looking for water. I don't begrudge them that either.
As long as I have my steel rack where I can lay this tired old body down, that's all I need. It's all I've had for eighteen years. Ever since that night that will live in infamy.
Don't misunderstand me. I know exactly why I am confined in this hole. So, don't try to piss on my boots and tell me it's raining. I'm a danger to society. A psychopath. At least, that's what the court ruled.
But, I'm really not. I just hate people. I played middle linebacker on my high school football team. Won State three years running. And, that was where I suppose my aggressive nature manifested itself. Got in a hell-of-a-lot of altercations. Some dude'd laugh about something and I'd bust his head.
Most of those fights were because of me standing up in defense of littler guys. I can't tolerate bullies. Pick on someone smaller than you and I would beat you to a pulp. Evened the playing field that way.
Had my coach, and several personality tests, tell me I should be a cop. That's hysterical. I joined the Special Forces right after graduating. That was a four year blast. Got deployed to the Middle East. Dropped some bombs. I liked blowing things up! KABOOM!
Got discharged and bummed around a while. Sort of drifted in and out of town. Didn't say much of anything to anyone. Kind of a loner. Kept to myself. Swigged an ocean of liquor, then I met this group of miscreants. I fit right in with them.
There wasn't a bank we didn't rob within a hundred miles of Big D. Smooth as silk. That green stuff felt so good running through my fingers. All I could see was more dollar signs. Had everything I wanted and took it all with a gun. I got greedy.
We pulled our latest heist, and was divvying up the cash, when a lightbulb flashed inside my brain and I realized, Dumb-Ass, you can have it all. I wasted my four cohorts on the spot. A quarter of a million was mine.
Then it was wine, women, and song. I lived the life of Reilly. At least for a while. But, the excitement wasn't there. I needed a big score. Didn't take me long to know what it was, or to know how far in the toilet I had fallen.
I'm not a real political man, but, I must favor the limelight. It happened to be an election year in the Lone Star State, and my quarry was to participate in a televised debate. The adrenaline coursed through my body as I made my way into the Convention Hall.
Slipping past the Security checkpoint was easy. Getting past most Rent-A-Cops always is, and I had learned a thing or two about such trivial pursuits from my bank robbery days.
I knew the local news affiliates would be covering the evening's spectacle. I decided they would get a good performance. One for the ages.
I allowed the crowd to file into the auditorium. After all, an occasion like I planned required an audience. The Democratic Mayor, who had held office long enough I decided, stood at the middle podium. My opinion was that he should only be allowed an eight year term serving the public. His Republican challenger stood to his left, and his Independent challenger on his right.
From my vantage point in the middle of the front row I knew there was absolutely no way I could miss, even dead-eyed drunk. Which I wasn't. Nor did I have a little peashooter trained on them. My military background ensured my aim was true, especially when I fired my Glock, which I tremendously enjoyed doing.
POP! POP! and POP! All three of the debaters fell where they stood. My good deed of the day completed. I was bumrushed by at least a dozen deputies, and who knows how many plainclothes sworn-upholders-of-the-law, as well. My claim to fame was in the bag.
Outnumbered by a landslide, I threw my Glock down and surrendered without any further incident. The news cameras sent to cover the debate, for all the television stations, captured the entire incredible incident that would never be forgotten.
Dubbed an enemy of the state, my trial was speedy. The swift verdict was guilty. And, my death sentence readily imposed. My mugshot snapped. My head shaved bald. I was unceremoniously deposited in this steel Hell where it takes a ring of keys to move.
Now, I'm being led down the hallway to my doom. The warden, two guards, and a sad old padre in tow. My execution imminent. I refused a final meal. And, there would be no last words spoken.
As I pass by each cell along the way the other condemned prisoners clang on the bars of their cell doors with metal cups. The racket resonates.
Three more steps and we reach the execution chamber where the electric chair, affectionately known as Old Sparkaroo, awaits.
My time is up. My final thought is life has been one Hell of a ride.
The curtain to the viewing chamber opens and I give a slight nod to those who came to see me fry.
I turn to the warden, flash him a quick smile, and simply say, "Let's give them their show!"
| Author Notes |
Big D -- is Dallas
Life of Reilly -- is high class Won State -- means the State Championship Fry -- electrocuted Thanks Contests for the use of your picture. |
By Brett Matthew West
(This portion of the story takes place the next day):
The shocking details of the alleged murder-suicide was front page news for the Dellville Reviewer. It was also their biggest selling edition ever. The details of the crime seemed to catch everybody's fancy. Except mine.
I slowly poured three fingers bourbon into my coffee cup, and simply shook my head. Not in disbelief of Rhonda Singletary murdering her so called "live-in lover," but because from my lofty perch in the club I could witness everyone's reaction to having it reported on Channel 23's local news, which they broadcasted as the featured story of the night.
Big-flipping-deal, and ho-freaking-hum! Who hadn't heard it all day long? Rumors travel rapidly in small towns.
It's about time I introduce myself. My name is Ola Thompson, and I was a co-worker of the two, now dead, "star-crossed" lovers. No, I am much more than that. So much more.
If you ask me, the little snip Beth--what a two-timing piece of work she was--got exactly what she had coming to her. The money-hungry little twit only played women for the worldly possessions they could afford her.
But, she was no better than any of the rest of us. She only imagined she was. Oh, she could turn the charms and wiles on at the drop of a hat any time she wanted to. But, which one of us couldn't do that?
Give the spoiled little bitch brat what she wanted and she was happy as a clam. Deny her one small trinket and she'd just move on to the next leg-spreading Dike she found that had money to spend.
Hell, Beth couldn't work no pole better than anybody else could, either. In fact, I taught her everything she knew about shimmying and gyrating.
See, I know men. And, I know what makes their tiny little tingle go off. I also fully understand what makes them open their big fat wallets wider. Life's all about the green. So, don't let anybody tell you any differently.
I own the Dancing Fairies nightclub. And, as they say, gentlemen do prefer blondes, and redheads, and every other color of hair you can name. As long as you play their fantasy.
Slip them a little booze. And, expose a small amount of titty. Really, that's all you have to do. Then, flash them a suggestive pose on that pole standing in the middle of my establishment, and watch them eat out of the palm of your hand. They're all the same. Keeps me in business.
And, it beats walking the streets. Selling your wares. Which I have also done. Besides, it's all perfectly legal. Men are such puppets. Pull their strings. Watch them dance. Been that way since time immemorial. And, Beth was just learning the finer nuances of hunting men.
On the other hand, Rhonda Singletary would have you believe she took care of Beth. What utterly preposterous rubbish! All she ever wanted from Beth was a good lay. Truth is she never got it. See, I owned Beth, lock, stock, and barrel.
Beth's parents had run her off when she was all of seventeen years old. Such a fragile child. I took her in. I fed her. I clothed her. I put a roof over her head.
Her being a lesbian did not bother me like it did her prudish mommy and daddy. Hell, I even provided her first romp in bed. One she never forgot.
She knew nothing. I had to teach her everything, including how to properly please a woman. That first day Beth was here, I thought there was absolutely no way she would last through the night. But, it came to pass I grew very fond of her. For a while.
Then, Rhonda Singletary had to try to cut in on my action. Rhonda was another story altogether. I gave her a job when she had no place else to go. How I wished I had never done such a stupid thing. But, much to my chagrin, I did. Oh well, live and learn I always say.
But, Rhonda wasn't happy being just another one of my employees. No. She honestly thought she ran the place. Oh, up there on that pole, she could make any man gawgy over her. She was a natural. She should have been. The Dirt Bag grew up in the Red Light District.
About a year after Rhonda started working here suspicious activities began taking place deeply affecting my pockets and the welfare of my club. So, I snooped around subtly. I wanted to catch the guilty culprits red-handed before I would extract my revenge on them.
One by one I eliminated all the girls who danced for me as suspects. That was except Rhonda and Beth. I also knew Rhonda had to be the ringleader and that Beth was only following in her misguided footsteps. Both of them would pay a very steep price for stealing from me.
First I confronted Beth. With tears in her eyes she admitted her involvement in the thefts from my registers. I softly stroked her hair, and kissed her gently on the forehead.
"It's okay, Honey," I lyingly told her, then said, "you go home, pack a suitcase, and leave town. And, whatever you do, don't look back."
I had just initiated my plan. Beth quickly left the club and headed straight for the home she and Rhonda shared just like I wanted her to do.
Next, it was time to confront Rhonda. At first she denied any involvement. That was until I told her Beth confessed to me what the two of them had been doing. Then, she couldn't wait to change her story.
I told her she was going to pay me back all the money she had stolen. And, the first installment would be the tips she made that night, which she turned over to me...grudgingly.
As Rhonda blew out the door like a tornado in heat I knew I held all the cards in my hand. I departed the premises a few minutes after she did, and the club had been locked up for the night.
During our conversation Rhonda had mentioned she had a stop to make on her way home. That would allow me to enact the second part of my plan. So, on the drive across town to the house the two of them shared, I mentally covered what I planned to do.
Beth was completely surprised to see me standing there with my .44 in hand, when I knocked on their front door and she opened it, allowing my entrance.
I softly patted her cheek, and told her, "Don't sweat the small stuff, girlfriend. You're the lucky one. You get to live."
I pointed the .44 dead in her face, and said, "That is if you do exactly what I tell you to do!"
Beth silently nodded her head acknowledging she understood what I said, and quietly I stepped into the closet in their bedroom holding the .44 pointed directly at the middle of her back.
I knew the wooden slats in the door would conceal my being there when Rhonda entered the bedroom. And, so, I waited, knowing she would arrive home momentarily.
Beth's packing a suitcase was all Rhonda needed to see to make her know something was amiss. When Beth did not answer her demands about why she was packing that suitcase I knew Rhonda's excessive temper would get the better of her. And, without fail, it did.
Especially with Beth's Oscar-winning performance of laughing in her face. That, I knew would trigger Rhonda's rage. All parts of my plan. The beauty of this scene was actually heartwarming to me, and I almost cried. Right! Like Hell I did.
I truly loved it when Rhonda chased Beth out of the house, down the steps leading up to their front porch, and half way across their neatly manicured lawn. My heart warmed with delight while I watched Rhonda choking the life out of Beth.
That had been part three of my plan all along. I never had any intentions whatsoever of allowing Beth to leave alive. And, to force Rhonda to murder her was so poetically beautiful to me.
When Beth fell limp on the ground I made my presence known to Rhonda. Standing on the porch, my .44 now trained on the woman I desperately despised, I ordered her back inside the house.
She knew she had no alternative. I then demanded she go back into her bedroom. There was a confession she was going to write. I instructed her to sit down and handed her a sheet of paper I had printed off my work computer earlier that day.
Then, I kept my pistol on her the entire time she copied word for word what I had written: the confession that became part one of this little tale.
When Rhonda finished writing I calmly told her, "Now you die!"
I forced her to pick up the Dellinger I spotted laying on the nightstand by her bed and shove its barrel way down her throat. Then, I made her eat a bullet. My revenge fulfilled.
So, let the news reporters slant their stories any way their little, bitty, heart's desire. All it does is provide me with the perfect cover.
As the evening news faded off the air I continued feasting on the steak I had ordered for dinner knowing the Black Widow strikes again.
No one will ever know I got away with murder.
| Author Notes |
Since I posted Confession, the first part of this little story, several FanStorians have asked me a wide variety of questions pertaining to the story.
This portion of my little tale was written in an effort to answer the questions I have been asked about this story. Some times the truth is stronger than fiction. Thanks dragifortuna for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my little story. |
By Brett Matthew West
Mary McGraw is a woman with a heart of gold. The kind who wouldn't even harm a flea. But, she is also a new mother and her baby son is her whole life.
Don't mind the tattoos that cover Mary's arms. She rides a Harley and belongs to a motorcycle gang. And, your point is Amigo?
She is also a peaceful woman, to a point. But, don't piss her off. Especially where her new son, the one she calls Hunter, is concerned.
Mary's divorce was especially nasty. Chalk that up to the moron she was married to.
What an absolute L-O-S-E-R he was. I know, he once rode with us. Mary will tell you she fell more in love with his bike than she ever cared about him.
Hunter was just ten weeks old when this little incident happened, and Mary has custody of him. She gives that baby everything he needs, and then a whole lot more. Food, diapers, love. And, she had a bad feeling about having to allow her ex to take him for the weekend. Believe me, she only did it because of a court order.
This was the first time he would have Mary's son without supervision, and she had been having a very uneasy feeling something bad was going to happen. Needless to say, it did.
Now it was Monday morning after that weekend and Mary's baby had not been safely returned to her. Her ex-old man had quietly skipped town. He wasn't supposed to leave with Hunter to go anywhere.
Mary was royally pissed off and was understandably on the warpath. They say there is nothing worse than a woman scorned and all out war had been declared to get Hunter back.
Rumor had it the dipstick had ferreted the baby across the state line to California. Somewhere out in the desert. And, all kinds of red flags were waving in Mary's mind. See, he had done time for doing things to little boys he shouldn't have.
That was long before Mary hooked up with him. He had ridden with her one night under the stars, and I guess she got rocks in her head. One thing led to another, and spreading her legs just felt so right. Or, so that's how her story goes. And, into lust she did give. Now, Mary freely admits that was the biggest mistake of her life.
Mary informed us two things were going to happen. First, she was going to grab her Glock and then she was going to call the boys. All for one and one for all is the creed of our gang. When one of us needs help, no doubt about it, we're there. In spades.
For Mary's sake, us boys wanted blood about as much as she did. The law of the jungle says the fittest survives. And, as the gang's leader no one questioned Mary's call. We just mounted our rides and headed west.
It wouldn't take but about three hours to reach our destination. Then all Hell would break loose. Still, Mary remained as calm, cool, and collected as a she-wolf in heat on the prowl could be.
What Mary planned to put her ex through ran rampantly through her mind on our excursion, and we all knew it. Oh, he would definitely rue the day he was born. That would be all the pleasure he would ever know again.
The sun blasted down as we made our way into the desert. Mary raised her clenched fist and we all circled our bikes around her, waiting for her instructions. They were simple. Reportedly, the small hole-in-the-wall known as Mojave was our destination. Mary had been told this before we began our trek.
She told us to ride in, and ask around, in the only saloon she saw on the dusty dirt road that ran through the town. She also informed us that if we don't get the details she wanted to tear the joint up till we did.
We liked the sound of those words. We wanted some action, and with Mary's baby on the line, she wasn't going to deny us our privileges.
We rode into town, with a cloud of dust trailing behind our bikes. Arriving at the two-bit joint, Mary dismounted first, us boys in tow. Then, she made her way into the bar, slowly looked around, and found the bartender.
Reckon our presence made the few patrons in the place awfully nervous. We watched as they hurriedly slinked out of the bar as fast as they could. Then, Mary got right up in the bartender's face. She could smell his whiskey breath.
She demanded what she wanted to know in a voice that told the bartender his response had better be immediate, if he knew what was good for him.
Wiping the top of the bar down with a damp cloth, he told her, "Ma'am, I don't want no troubles."
Ma'am. Mary liked his manners. She indicated to him that he still had a slight chance to live to see the sun come up again tomorrow.
"That's your call," she told him, "all I want is my son back. Seen him?" she demanded.
"Was here an hour back," the bartender replied without hesitation. He looked at Mary's boys milling around her just waiting her word to tear him and the place apart.
The bartender told Mary, "There's an old shack half mile outside of town. He had a few. Said he was going to sell the kid to some people. Something 'bout ten big ones."
Mary patted the bartender on the shoulder and said, "Good boy. That's all I wanted to know. Now, here's your ticket to breathing air. GET! Before one of my boys grows a little antsy and starts a little carving project I won't be able to stop."
I have never seen a 70 year old man run so fast in my life. Hysterical! Mary grabbed a bottle of his best from off the counter. She sauntered out the door giving us a two-finger salute. While we had our fun destroying the place, Mary waited outside.
The shack the bartender told Mary about seemed deserted as we rode up. Then she spotted her ex's bike half concealed behind it. It was just like him to be too stupid to even conceal it so it could not be seen.
Ever wanted to shove a motorcycle over with a loud crash? Know you have. And, that is what I did. He wouldn't be needing his ride no more. But, the sound made him crawl out of his hole.
"You got one half split second to give me Hunter!" was all Mary told him," the loaded Glock in her hand, "then, I blow your brains out where you stand!"
He froze in place, "I can explain," he tried to tell her knowing she had the bead on him.
"Here's all the explaining that's going to happen," Mary snapped back at him. She then told me to "grab your chains. I see a little dragging party in your immediate future."
Mary's comment terrified her ex. And, it should have. Being dragged behind a roaring bike, at about ninety miles an hour, doesn't leave much of a body behind. However, the thought brought a sudden ear-to-ear, mile-wide grin to my face. I couldn't wait. Bastard had it coming!
When I pulled a ten foot long chain out of the saddlebag on my bike her ex stood there knowing his life was over.
"Let me grab Hunter first," Mary instructed me. "Then, we'll meet you back in Nevada."
And, that is how the deal went down. Mary is one Mama Bear whose cub you don't mess with.
We still ride, and we are all still our peaceful, loving selves. Nothing's changed.
And, Hunter? Gotta say that little monster's getting bigger every day. Soon Mary will have him riding his own hog.
Can't wait.
What a happy family we will be.
| Author Notes |
Some Mama Bears you just do not mess with.
Thanks Sierra Treasures for the use of your picture. |
By Brett Matthew West
PRE-ARTICLE NOTES:
Allow me to introduce this article by saying it is being posted in an effort to shed some light on the affects the insidious monster known as child abuse can have on all the lives it touches.
The facts depicted in this article have not been diminished in any way and may be very difficult for some readers to handle.
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QUANDRY
The sun was beginning to rise over the Nashville skyline on the morning of September 1, 2015. It was a Tuesday, typically my first day in the office each week.
I hate Mondays with a passion, and I love three day weekends, because there is always so much to do here in Music City. So, put two and two together, and, well, you get the picture.
My office is located on Demonbreun near the Ryman Auditorium, the world famous Tootsie's Orchid Lounge, and all the other extremely popular tourist destinations any of you who have ever visited our great city can attest to.
These are a handful of the vast assortment of attractions that lure so many Country music fans downtown on their pilgrimages to the Heart of Tennessee.
I hadn't planned to be in my office very long that day. And, I hadn't even poured my first tall glass of ice cold sweet tea yet. That is highly unusual for me not to do right off the bat upon arriving at my office. I drink tea all day long although I am Type 2 Diabetic and should not. But, hey, we all have our own little vices don't we?
I had settled into my overstuffed, blue leather, high back, comfortable chair. We all know the kind us writers claim are so vitally important when we are trying to write. And, writing is what drew me into my office that day.
I had a story for one of the local Country music news organizations, and an article for the USA Today to complete. Then, I needed so badly to respond to some of the comments I receive every day on my classiccountrymusicgoldnashville.com website, where I currently have almost 6,200 subscribers.
And, I thought I might even write a little something for FanStory. I do try to frequently place something on that cute little site as well. All in all, just another usual day for me.
It was then I received a bit of a completely unexpected bombshell from my Secretary Rebecca Sorenson. Becky has been with me almost from the time I first opened my office, about ten years ago now. And, no, there is nothing in the romance department brewing between us, in case you may be wondering. She is very happily, and long time, married.
Unlike yours truly, Becky tries to remain out of the limelight as much as she possibly can. She is very professional at all times in her appearance and demeanor. And, Becky has also seen many of my successes as a Country lyricist and as a writer.
So, I know when something is troubling her, and her actions that morning painted the picture loud and clear. Without saying a word Becky placed a manila envelop down on top of the papers I had neatly spread out on my desk before I started working and then quietly departed my office.
I didn't have to ask her who the letter was from. Like I said, her actions told me all I needed to know. It could only be in reference to a matter I have been engaged with for the last eight years.
Some of you may recall I posted a lyric on FanStory a while back that I called "Gasoline And Matches," which, thanks to all of you who supported my little lyric made it the second most popular piece I have posted on FanStory to date.
I am not bragging here. I am just trying to convey my appreciation for those who supported my efforts along those lines. And, there are several of you who constantly do. You know who you are.
I may republish those lyrics as part of this article before I am finished writing it even though that may very well violate FanStory guidelines. If it does my desire is that Tom understands my reasons for doing so and would grant me a one time exception to this policy.
I am now going to attempt to not only detail the events I am talking about in this article, but, I am going to try to explain these lyrics as well. The two go hand in hand.
The envelop Becky laid down on my desk before leaving my office is from the young man I wrote "Gasoline And Matches" about. His sentence is death. His crime is patricide.
For someone who makes a fairly good living as a freelance writer I have written about many different topics and a wide variety of subject as well. I even wrote an article once about cute and cuddly baby bottle warmers. Perhaps I will eventually post that one on FanStory too. I am very seriously considering it.
The young man in my "Gasoline And Matches" lyrics that I am discussing in this article is a resident on the Tennessee State Death Row. I first began following his case, somehow it piqued my curiosity as a writer, when the details of the physical, emotional, and sexual abuse he suffered as a little boy became public knowledge during his trial.
I will not identify his inmate number, just let it suffice that for the sake of this article I will refer to him simply as Ricky, although that is not his real name. For confidentiality, I must go this way.
Ricky was born the only child of a small town country preacher in Goodlettsville, not too far outside Nashville Proper. Don't misunderstand me, I am not trying to portray all preachers in this light. Most of them are outstanding pillars of their communities. Unfortunately, Ricky's father did not fit that mold.
He had some serious issues. Namely, little white, pick-me-upper pills and booze. And, it always seemed Ricky bore the brunt of his father's many binges. A very familiar scenario for anyone who has ever been caught up in this vicious cycle before.
Ricky's mother decided she could not handle the trauma constantly created by his father and abandoned ship when he was almost three years old. This left Ricky to pretty much fend for himself.
Needless to say this forced Ricky to endure all of his father's wrath, and almost on a daily basis. What else could the helpless, defenseless, boy do?
The older Ricky grew to be the more violent his beatings and abuse became. Living on a twenty acre spread out in the middle of the country only tended to help camouflage what was happening behind closed doors.
And, the fear of his father forced Ricky not to utter anything to anybody at schools he attended, or other public outings, he was on either, according to his own testimony, because he knew when they were all alone he would be much more severely abused by his father if he dared mention anything about what was taking place on the home front.
Always small in stature, Ricky's abuse continued until he was eighteen-years-old. Then it all came to a screeching halt one night. Unable to tolerate any more, Ricky quietly waited outside their dilapidated farmhouse until his father was blind drunk and passed out in the middle of the living room floor.
Ricky knew when his father got in that condition it became his responsibility to undress him, and put him to bed, or suffer his father's wrath the next morning for not doing what he had been ordered by his dictatorial father to do.
Only this time Ricky saw what he thought was a long awaited light at the end of the tunnel for him. He grabbed the five gallon can of gasoline he had stashed in the barn earlier that afternoon and twisted the cap off of it.
Slowly he poured a more than sufficient quantity of petroleum around the outside base of their home. Whether the boy was thinking straight, or not, he lit a match and dropped it into the gasoline.
Combining the old, dried out, wooden planks of wood their home was made from, with the gasoline, the inferno was immediately ignited and the flames burned bright. Ricky had gained his independence. Short lived though it was.
Perhaps searching for a smidgeon of understanding at his trial, where he was tried as an adult, Ricky openly admitted what he had done and how much pent up hatred he had for his now dead father.
That thought pleased Ricky to no end. How he longed to celebrate his father's death. And, that it was at his hands after a life time of morbid abuse made him even happier.
Instead of finding sympathy and compassion all Ricky received from the judge was being told to go to Hell! And that the whole county knew what a fine, highly respected, leader of society his father had always been. (Do I hear a resounding BULLSHIT! here?)
Upon being convicted of first degree, premeditated, murder, and once the jury recommended their findings, the judge sentenced Ricky to death by lethal injection.
This was completely unbelievable to Ricky. How could the judge, the jury, and the whole community be so bamboozled and blinded by what his father had put him through his whole life?
Could they not see what was right before their very own eyes? Flabbergasted by the whole ordeal Ricky realized that he was still going to pay for all the instances of abuse he had endured. This time with his life.
I fast forward from these events of eight years ago back to my office on September 1, 2015. And, I can empathize with Becky's feelings. What little bit she has opened up to me about this case is that she feels Ricky is getting his just deserts as she can not rationalize a life of abuse, even extreme abuse, justifying murder.
So, I try not to discuss this matter in her presence. And, I seriously doubt I will divulge the contents of this letter that she dropped on my desk that morning are from Ricky, to her.
This letter is a tough one. In it Ricky has invited me to be a witness at his execution. I debate how I feel about that issue. I am a very strong supporter of the Death Penalty overall by nature, but a large portion of me wonders if it is truly applicable in this case?
Ricky seems to be coming to terms with his fate though.
As a writer I am intrigued by this whole situation. However, I can not change Ricky's precarious circumstances, and, I do not know that I would if I could.
All I can do is report.
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SUBSCRIPT:
Since I first posted this article many FanStorians, who have expressed a vested interest in this matter, have asked me what the basis of a guilty verdict was in this case. This subscript was taken directly from the transcripts of Ricky's trial. Perhaps it will answer that question for them:
Keep in mind that because of confidentiality all names used throughout this entire article are fictitious.
The tension rising higher with each passing moment the wily, seasoned, veteran Prosecutor John Alderman could smell blood. And, like buzzards circling readying to devour carrion they found laying on the side of the road, he knew with a little urging, he could make the young defendant admit to anything he wanted him to.
The still wet-behind-the-ears Public Defender sat in his chair, his fingers interlocked. He placed his hands behind his head and knew this was now a lost cause.
Ricky had been asked a question by the Prosecutor, but did not respond to what Alderman wanted to know. In frustration the Prosecutor asked the Judge, "Your Honor, will you please instruct the defendant to answer my last question?"
The judge, an old, bi-focal wearing codger, glanced at Ricky and sternly warned him to "Answer the Prosecutor's question or I will find you in contempt of my court!"
Ricky looked back at the judge, then to Alderman, and said, "No, I never once breathed a word of what he was doing to me to anybody. Not one person."
"And, why didn't you tell somebody about this alleged abuse your father committed against you?" Alderman then asked him.
"Because I knew I'd get beat a whole lot worse by him if I told anybody about what he was doing to me," Ricky responded as truthfully as he could.
Alderman paused for dramatic affect, then fired back, "Or was it simply because none of this alleged abuse ever happened, and you made it all up?"
Ricky shifted his position in the witness chair. He heard the murmurs of the packed courthouse rising in a gasp. He then noticed how the twelve jurors seemed to buy into Alderman's theatrics.
The judge pounded his gavel down hard twice on top of his big wooden desk and demanded, "Order! Order! In my court right now before I throw the whole bunch of you hayseeds out of here! I said order!"
Alderman continued his grilling of Ricky as quickly as the courtroom spectators quieted down, "The truth is you despised your father and you wanted him dead. So, you devised the cruelest method you could scheme up and deliberately set that fire just to murder him in cold blood."
Ricky's Public Defender meekly stated, "Objection Your Honor. Mr. Alderman is badgering my client."
With penetratingly cold eyes the judge glared at the Public Defender and curtly said, "Objection overruled. The Defendant will answer the question."
Ricky hesitated ever so slightly then said, "He deserved with I did to him! He was never a father! He never loved me! No did he ever want me around."
"So, now we are finally getting to the truth and you freely admit you murdered him," Alderman calmly remarked.
"I killed him," Ricky slowly responded and once again the murmurs in the courtroom erupted, then he asked the Prosecutor, "how else could I make him leave me alone?"
During deliberations that episode was viewed by the members of the jury as Ricky's confession and Alderman won his case.
| Author Notes |
This is a true case.
I am posting this article now so that maybe somebody else out there does not have to go through what Ricky did, or end up where he is at now. If somebody is hurting you let someone know. Say something to somebody before it is too late. Child abuse must be stopped! Thanks MoonWillow for the use of your picture. It goes so nicely with my article. |
By Brett Matthew West
To Whom It May Concern:
I killed her. I didn't want to but what other choice did I have? I mean, look at her picture. See how drop-dead gorgeous she is, even in death? If only my Beth hadn't been such a conniving, cold-hearted, manipulating little bitch! Then none of the rest of this would have happened.
I gave Beth everything money could buy. All she had to do was look at something that caught her fancy, and lickety split, the item her tender little heart craved became hers. So what if I had to labor at two full time jobs to satisfy her fourteen carat mind? What made Beth happy made me happy. And, I loved being her Sugar Momma.
We had been together forever, or at least since we were little kids. I lived in an old, run down, clapboard house at the end of the street just before the Red Light District began, and Beth, well she lived in the middle of a Cul-de-sac.
Hell, her whole house, and its property, consumed the entire Cul-de-sac. 1412 East Diamond Road. That was her address alright. I will never forget it.
No diamond ever sparkled as brightly as my Beth did though. I remember the first time she caught my attention. We were only prepubescents but she made my hormones rage out of control.
And, Beth was the epitome of grace too. Every fluid motion she made screamed elegance in a tone that made the whole world stand up and take notice.
The butterflies always danced around in my stomach when I was near her. And, the slight trembling present in my knees when I walked by her only whetted my appetite and made me know Beth was all I ever wanted.
I longed for the passion of her touch with every breath in my body. One that ached when I could not be near her. To say Beth was the sunshine of my day is a gross understatement. She was my day, and my night, and every fiber of my very being.
Then we grew up and reached our early twenties, How I longed to marry her. But, society simply would not permit such a thing. "Oh no, can't have that!" they frowned at the marriage license bureau, "Not natural."
Natural or not marriage would have been the perfect consummation of our relationship. And, by golly, who has the authority to legislate who you can love and who you can't?
So, we happily moved in together. And, for me, that was pure bliss. I couldn't wait to carry Beth across the threshold of our brand new home for the first time. Then, right up the stairs to the four poster bed, and the feather-down pillow, where she laid her pretty head.
The first few months we got along splendidly. Who wouldn't find a way to make a relationship like ours work out perfectly? Then one day I noticed something, and it scared me. I never would have expected the change I saw in her. Oh, but, it was there. Bigger than life.
I tried to brush off the feeling, but it just wouldn't go away. I even tried to ignore it. You know, tell myself it wasn't real. That it was all in my imagination. That my mind was playing an evil trick on me. But, no matter what I did it felt more and more like our love was becoming a Halloween nightmare.
Every time I asked Beth about what I suspected, of course, she always denied it. Still, the lingering doubts would not desipitate. They only grew stronger. And, perish the thought, but my suspicions drove my anguish and anxiety more until the day I proved her unfaithful ways.
Why couldn't I leave well enough alone? After slaving for another grueling eighty plus hour week, I arrived home tonight to find my angel doll packing a suitcase she had opened and placed on the same bed where we had so often discovered romantic pleasure.
This could not be happening. It simply was not real. My mind could not wrap itself around the concept of what I was about to lose. My entire world was going to walk right out the door and leave me facing the cold hard facts of life.
"Beth," I pleaded with her tearfully asking, "was it something I did? Or, was it something I didn't do? I've got to know the truth. I've given you all my love and everything money can buy too. Please, don't leave me like this!"
My darling didn't say a word. Not one teeny weeny little peep did she offer as an explanation for the impending doom.
My pride completely gone, I hit both of my bended knees right in the middle of the floor begging her to stay. And, you know what she did? She laughed at me. Up close as she could get, and in my tear-stained face, she laughed at me.
I couldn't allow her to get away with that. Now could I? I snapped. Way down deep inside me something snapped. And, do you know how her laughing at me made me feel? Small! Smaller than I had ever felt before in my entire life.
And, all the love I had for this radiant beauty, the one I would have gladly died for, suddenly turned into raging, uncontrollable hatred. Hate, like I never knew anybody could despise another human being.
If I couldn't have Beth for myself nobody else was going to have her either. She snapped the clasps on her suitcase shut and snatched it off the bed. Then she raced out the front door as fast as she could run. I was hot on her trail.
On the front porch I yanked the suitcase out of her hand so hard it pulled her shoulder out of joint. She screamed in agony and dropped it right there.
She bolted across our well manicured lawn and glanced over her injured shoulder to see where I was. Yes, I was in hot pursuit. My madness would only be satisfied when I had my bare hands snuggly wrapped around her little neck.
When I finally grabbed her, the angry expression on my face told the two-timing slut she had reached the end. Tighter and tighter and tighter I squeezed the existence out of her being. I heard Beth gurgling louder the harder I squeezed her throat!
Then she collapsed in a heap on the grass. But, there were no tears in these blue eyes of mine now. This cat fight was over and the tigress had slain her prey. For a brief instant I felt a flush come over me.
Momentarily, I saw an eerie sight. There before me, levitating into thin air, was the ghost of the one true love of my life. As she floated away she kind of gave me a little wink as if to warn me to watch my back. Or, maybe, it was more of a "see you in paradise" kind of look.
As I reentered the house I could not forget the look on the face of the ghost. Or, was it guilt over what I had done? Slowly, one by one, I climbed the stairs leading to our bedroom. As I saw it I had no reason to live. Everything I treasured was a far distant memory buried deep in my past.
Once inside the room I sat down on the bed where all the love we shared had been made. It was there I put the cold, metallic barrel of the Dellinger I kept on the nightstand in my mouth and ate a bullet.
If I couldn't have her in this life maybe I could have her in the next one. Time would certainly tell.
Now you see why I had to kill her. I didn't want to but I had no other option.
They say confession is good for the soul so all I can do now is leave this note for the authorities, and anyone else involved in the investigation of this matter, who may attempt to put the pieces of this puzzle together. What else can I do?
C'est la vie!
Sincerely,
Rhonda Singletary
Deceased
| Author Notes |
The events described in this story are all a product of the writer's all-too-often extremely vivid imagination.
This is a completely fictional story. Any similarities to a real life situation you may be aware of are strictly coincidental. Lesbianism was used as a creative liberty to add a different spin to this story. Thanks Contests for the use of your picture. |
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| © Copyright 2015 Brett Matthew West All rights reserved. Brett Matthew West has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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